Educating Emma
by kalianony
Summary: A little novella about the consequences of ignorance, and how Mr. Knightley helps Emma deal with ignorance throughout her life. Begins in accordance with canon, then goes AU but running parallel to canon. My first fanfiction ever! Please leave a little review. :)
1. Growing Emma

_A/N: Welcome to my first fanfic. I hope you like it! It's more or less a collection of longish drabbles which will go a little AU after chapter/drabble 5. It's for fun, pure entertainment, not to be a brilliant, engaging, thought-provoking story. Sometimes I like to read little fluff pieces like this, and, wow, it's easier to write fluff than a serious novel. :) Anyway, enjoy, and please feed the author. ;)_

George Knightley was the town's youngest magistrate ever at the ripe age of twenty-eight, and right now he was reviewing the week's cases by a beautiful stream with a spunky twelve-year-old flopped at his feet. Miss Emma Woodhouse, younger sister of his new sister-in-law, was entirely too good at manipulating Knightley into accompanying her on walks around her father's house, since her father wouldn't go with her, and Miss Taylor was busily preparing for tomorrow's lessons.

"Tell me about one of your cases, George," Emma's voice said, interrupting his thoughts.

He frowned. "They're not really suitable for children."

"I'm not a child," she protested. "Besides, Miss Taylor has an enviable collection of _gothics_, and I got into them last summer." Emma grinned. "She had a fit, of course, but they gave me no nightmares. I love adventure," she added wistfully, "and so, you see, I know all about wickedness."

Knightley laughed. "Emma, my ledger is not full of adventures," he chided. "These are the _mis_adventures of real people. Not the workings of some sensationalist authoress's mind." His expression grew more serious. "And, while fictional tales may not give you nightmares, you may find it a very different thing indeed to know that such things really happen, and in Highbury, no less."

Emma glared at him in annoyance. "I'm_ quite_ sure I can handle it, Mr. Knightley." She continued in a sweeter tone. "Be a friend and tell mesomething, at least. You can pick the least offensive you can find."

He clucked at her, but dutifully looked through his papers. "Here, this one. Young fellow accused of stealing chickens. First offense. Reprimanded, and will be watched more carefully from now on."

"That was boring," Emma accused. "Find me a more interesting one, Mr. Knightley!" When he only sighed, she elaborated, "something with _blood_."

"This is Highbury, Emma," he exclaimed. "Not much in the way of violence here!"

"Husbands beat their wives," she said matter-of-factly.

"Emma!" Knightley said in shock. "Whatever put that notion in your head?"

"I saw it," she snapped. "Albert Martin. He came home from wherever he goes off to on Thursday nights- gaming tables, probably- and, well, she had a puffy lip the next day."

Knightley frowned, making a mental note to drop in on Catherine Martin later in the day. Not that he liked to interfere, but the Martins were tenants, and checking on their welfare was part of his job.

"Well, is _that_ in your ledger?" Emma asked.

He huffed at her. "It couldn't be," he said with some reluctance. "Not everything that's immoral is illegal."

Emma stared at him in alarm, following his implication clearly. "I'm never getting married," she declared.

Knightley rolled his eyes. "Emma, not every husband is Albert Martin," he sighed.

"But I could never be sure," she protested. "And I'm a Woodhouse. I don'tneed any man's wealth, or status, and so-I won't risk it. I'm not going to marry." A look of mischief came over her face. "Unless we could overturn that law. Do you think, Mr. Knightley?"

He just smiled and shook his head at her enthusiasm. "I don't think you'll change England in a day or even a couple of years, Emma," he said gently.

"I can try!" came the eager reply.

"You could," he nodded, hoping the conversation would not later be repeated to her father, who might not appreciate such radical ideas being planted in his little darling's head.

Emma bounced up from her seat by the water's edge, then suddenly frowned very profusely. "I think I must have sat in mud," she said unhappily, reaching her hand behind her to try to brush the offending dirt off. "I've gotten all wet somehow." She stared at the ground where she had sat, which looked innocently dry, and gave up trying to brush the wetness off her dress. Bringing her hand back around, she stared at it in disbelief, for her palm was covered in dark red. "What-" she stammered, examining the ground again, and finding nothing except a tiny red blotch.

Knightley had set his papers down and stood up in concern. "Emma?" He asked.

"There's- something red, on the ground here," she said, "and it's gotten all over my dress, by the feel of it." She bent down and prodded the red spot with a stick. "It's not very deep into the dirt," she said in confusion. "It feels like it soaked into me more than is even there!" She sniffed. "It looks like _blood_, Mr. Knightley. Do you think a murder happened here? Maybe it was a giant puddle, and my dress soaked most of it up! Oh, dear, we'll have to turn my dress over to the police, and it's my very favorite yellow gown!"

By this point the young lady had turned around numerous times in her attempt to examine the bloody dirt, and it was plain to Knightley that there was indeed far more blood on her dress than had ever been on the ground. He cleared his throat. "Miss Woodhouse," he said, "I think we should go find Miss Taylor."

Emma looked at him in alarm. "Why? Why Miss Taylor?" She asked.

"I don't think, if the blood had been on the ground, it would have been a larger stain, even if your dress had soaked up most of it," he pointed out awkwardly.

Alarm was turning to horror on Emma's face. "Do you mean... Mr. Knightley... is it my blood? Am I _dying_?" Her voice was at a near-feverish pitch.

"You need to go back to the house," Knightley repeated. "Miss Taylor can explain."

"What if I die before I get there? What if I faint?" Emma's porcelain skin was even whiter than usual.

Knightley looked extremely uncomfortable. "I don't think you will, Emma." He repeated again, "Miss Taylor will explain."

But Emma proved herself right, and he had to jump up, scattering his ledger to the grass, as he raced to catch her before her head hit the ground. Shaking his head, he carried her back to the house and directly into Miss Taylor's study, thankful that she was young and slight.

"What happened?" Miss Taylor cried, jumping up from her desk and rushing to his side. "Put her on the couch, here," she pointed.

He hesitated. "You might want to get some rags first," he said hesitantly. "There's, uh, blood on her dress."

"What _happened_, Mr. Knightley?" Miss Taylor repeated. "Is she hurt? Did she fall? What-"

Knightley just shook his head. "No. She just was frightened- by the blood- and worked herself into such a panic that she fainted," he explained.

"But where did the blood come from?" Miss Taylor squinted at him through her spectacles.

He made no attempt to respond, though, and just stared at her.

"Ah, I see," Miss Taylor said, finally.

"She would not have been as frightened if she'd been warned," Knightley pointed out.

But Miss Taylor had no chance to respond, because Emma began to stir. "Mr. Knightley?" She said hazily. "Where am I?"

"Here, darling Emma," Miss Taylor replied. "Mr. Knightley kindly brought you back to the house. Now, I'm sure he has many things to do," she said with a significant look in his direction, "so say thank you, dearest, so he can go on his way."

Knightley carefully set Emma on her feet, and Miss Taylor quickly grabbed her arm to steady her.

Emma frowned. "Thank you, Mr. Knightley," she said, obediently.

"Good day, Miss Taylor. Good day, Emma," he bid, and left.


	2. Educating Emma

"But Mr. Knightley," Emma said, "WHY must I not go riding with Mr. Leland? Papa won't tell me."

George Knightley's brow furrowed deeply as he looked away from the bright sixteen-year-old with whom he was currently enjoying a morning stroll through the gardens.

Emma continued, "All Papa will tell me is that he will not see his only remaining daughter 'ruined.' But, Mr. Knightley, whatever does that mean? How could a ride, safe and tucked into a carriage, 'ruin' me? Papa doesn't seem to mind me riding in a carriage by myself, and surely Mr. Leland is an even safer driver than I am."

Knightley bit his lip. "I don't think Mr. Woodhouse fears that you will be in a crash, Emma."

Emma let out a sigh of exhasperation. "Well, what on earth else could he be concerned about!"

"What people might think," Knightley answered cautiously. Seeing Emma's still-uncomprehending glare, he continued. "People might think you had formed an attachment."

"Who cares with whom I may or may not form attachments?!" Emma's eyes flashed. "You sound like you agree with Papa!"

Knightley was quiet for a moment, studying birds in the distance. Finally he spoke. "I do, Emma. It's not wise for you to cavort with young men that way."

"I'm out for a walk with you!" She protested.

The gentleman smiled and Emma thought she might see a touch of color in his cheeks. "We are old, old friends, Emma. No one is likely to think anything. Certainly your father is not likely to think anything." He paused and added regretfully, "And still, perhaps I should not take you for a carriage ride, either, even if we were so inclined to such activities."

"Carriages ARE more stuffy than the great outdoors," Emma agreed amiably. They walked a few more paces, and then she thought of something. "But, Mr. Knightley, why may we walk together-why may Mr. Leland and I walk together-and yet not ride together? Wouldn't people assume we'd formed an attachment either way, simply by being in each others' company so frequently?"

Knightley frowned again. "Emma, you must speak plainly: have you and Mr. Leland formed an attachment?"

"Of course not, ninny. I'm sixteen and, besides, I never intend to marry."

"Does Mr. Leland know that?" Knightley had stopped walking.

Emma looked confused. "Surely he would not expect otherwise, Mr. Knightley! He's a pleasant enough companion, but, well, I am far beyond his reach socially."

"I wonder if the gentleman thinks that," Knightley replied, a touch darkly. "At any rate, it seems clear your father shares your lighthearted view, which is probably why he hasn't cautioned you." He frowned at Emma, deciding something. "Emma. You must take care with Mr. Leland."

"Oh, Mr. Knightley, you're too serious by half! Mr. Leland could never hurt a fly!" Emma protested.

"Hmm. Yet he wants to take you for a ride in a carriage, without a chaperon." He added, thoughtfully, "And he expected you to be receptive to such a suggestion. Yes, Emma, you must take care."

"I still don't understand why we may go for walks but not for rides," Emma complained.

Knightley's face was carefully expressionless. "Others may see you on walks," he explained.

"Well, that seems even worse!" Emma exclaimed. "It would surely hurt my reputation less if fewer people knew, as a carriage would afford! I don't know why I should care about my reputation, anyway. Silly old biddies like Mrs. Bates."

"Emma!" Knightley rebuked. "Your reputation is important. You say now that you never want to marry, but one day you may change your mind, and no gentleman would marry a woman with a ruined reputation."

Emma stopped in her tracks. "If a reputation is a thing that can be ruined simply by riding in a carriage with a friend, then I don't care a whit for it, or for a man who would rebuke me so."

Knightley stopped as well. "If it was merely a simple ride, Emma-"

"But why is a ride so much worse than a walk, Mr. Knightley? Still you evade my question." Emma interrupted, looking squarely into her friend's dark green eyes.

"Your father should tell you such things, Emma."

Emma huffed, "you know he never tells me anything except how to avoid being ill, or how I've just escaped catastrophe."

Knightley stared into her imploring eyes, a troubled look on his face, but remained silent.

"Please, Mr. Knightley. You have always been my source of excellent advice and understanding when I don't have any." She frowned. "There is something about this whole business that I don't understand, and I don't know what it is."

Knightley licked his lips and looked thoughtfully at his young friend. "Emma." He paused. "I will answer your question. If everyone sees you walking, then, yes, everyone can see and assume that you have formed an attachment. Which would be bad enough. And in a carriage, it's true that less people would know." Very slowly he continued. "But if even a single person found out, and wondered what had happened in the carriage..."

"What had happened?" Emma asked wonderingly. "Why, we should talk as any friends do, and look at the sights, and perhaps go to Box Hill without the trouble of a walk!"

"But no one could be sure of that, Emma," Knightley said gently. "Which is why it's unwise."

"I would tell anyone who asked!"

"That would not be enough, Emma. Or else everyone would do as they would, and lie about it after."

"What on earth else could we do, besides talk, Mr. Knightley? Why would it be so scandalous? Are they afraid of whether I might blunder into some treasonous political discussion?" Emma asked, uncomprehending. "How do such things 'ruin' otherwise elegant young ladies?"

Knightley laughed at the idea, then sobered. "Emma-" he broke off. "Has no one told you, ever, about-well, romance-seduction? What you must be careful of?"

"Seduction?" Emma huffed. "As if I couldn't stand up to the idea of some man wanting me to marry him."

"If seduction were always about marriage, Emma, it would hardly be a scandal."

"Well, what on earth else should I be seducted into?" She replied.

Knightley grabbed her shoulders lightly and looked more serious than she'd ever seen him. "Emma. Please tell me your education has not been so lacking, your father left you in such ignorance, truly! And the word is seduced."

Emma frowned at him. "I'm sure Papa would have told me everything I needed to know!"

"But he has never told you-about men?" he said queriously.

"About men?" Emma repeated blankly.

The frown on Knightley's face grew ever deeper, then he said in as detached of a tone as he could muster: "Men courting women-they are not always honorable, Emma."

"Oh, I know that," Emma said, and Knightley's face was flush with relief. Then she continued, "they may make you think they're serious when they're really just amusing themselves."

"Is that what you think I meant?" Knightley sighed. "No, Emma. I meant..." he trailed off. "When a man courts a woman..." he trailed off again. Finally he asked, bluntly, "do you know about kissing?"

"Of course, I'm not a ninny!" Emma said, offended. "Papa kisses my cheek. You used to, too," she said lightly.

"That's not the kind of kisses I mean," Knightley said vaguely.

"What other kinds of kisses are there?" Emma said, wonderingly.

A sigh of exhasperation escaped her companion. "Oh, Emma," he said. "What I am trying to say is-when a man is courting a woman, he wishes... he wishes to touch her." Now that the words had been said, Knightley felt a little relieved to have it over with. Surely Emma would begin to put together the pieces, would not need him to explain further.

But his luck was no match for Emma's curiosity. Her face showed clear signs of being scandalized by his blunt speech, and it took her a moment to gather her thoughts, but then she continued. "But no one seems to mind Mr. Leland touching me to help me out of the carriage when we arrive at a party, or for me to take his arm to go into dinner after a dance... I'm afraid I am still mystified, Mr. Knightley." She frowned. "Why should he not touch me?"

Knightley looked at her keenly. "Has he?" He asked.

"Well, as I have said-"

"It is poor indeed that your father and sister-that my brother-have neglected to explain this to you!" He said tightly. "It is... dangerous."

Emma's eyes began to swell with tears. "Mr. Knightley, what have I done?"

"I hope you have done nothing!" He exclaimed. "I suspect that you have done nothing," he reassured. "But someone should have told you, told you something... before allowing you to cavort with young gentlemen like Mr. Leland!"

"I've always cavorted with you, Mr. Knightley," Emma replied. "Is that so very different?"

Knightley clucked softly. "I would never take advantage, Emma, and your father knows that. You are in no danger from me," he said.

"Why should Mr. Leland be any different?" Emma said quickly.

"I believe Mr. Leland might be in love with you. And certainly he seems to think you might be in love with him." He paused, and said quietly, "And he's inviting you to disregard proprieties, which doesn't speak well of him. He should never have asked you to go riding."

"Because he might touch me," Emma said complacently. "Although it seems perfectly fine for him to do that in the public view, but not in private."

The gentleman's reply was quick. "You should not speak so lightly of these things, Emma!"

"Why?" She lobbied back. "What is the harm of being touched? You touch me-you grabbed me by the shoulders just now! And... it hurt! How could Mr. Leland do any worse?"

"Emma!" Knightley's face was ashen. "He could do much worse."

"He's a gentleman!"

"And gentlemen can be the ruin of reckless young ladies!"

Emma stomped her foot impatiently. "There's that word again, 'ruin.' What do you MEAN, Mr. Knightley? Everyone scurries about quietly on the subject and no one will tell me. Isabella won't tell me," she sniffed.

"It's not my place," Knightley said softly. "It's a completely inappropriate line of conversation, Emma, I'm sorry."

The gleam returned to Emma's eyes. "So I'm left in the dark, Mr. Knightley? You won't tell me, except to use alarming words like 'dangerous' and say vague things about touching and... and kissing! But even you won't tell me why I may not go riding with Mr. Leland, not really!"

Knightley watched his young friend for a long, long moment. "Gentlemen will only marry young ladies of good reputation," he explained, haltingly. "By which I mean-" he broke off. "I mean, young ladies who are known to be... to be... maidens."

"Maidens?" Emma's face was confused. "Like in Greek myths?"

"No. And yes. But no. A maiden is..." the words failed him again. "A virgin."

"Like Mary in the Bible?" Emma asked.

Knightley gritted his teeth. "That's a good example, I suppose. The miracle of Christ's birth was that He was conceived-that Mary became with child-without... without a father," he finished lamely.

"I don't understand, Mr. Knightley," Emma replied. "What does this have to do with Mr. Leland?"

He bit his lip. "If you rode all the way to Box Hill in a closed carriage with Mr. Leland, people would wonder whether or not you were still... untouched."

"Of course I'm not untouched!" She exclaimed. "We've covered this, Mr. Knightley."

A tiny smile lit Knightley's face for a moment before he sombered. "No, Emma; I'm sorry. It's a euphemism. For a virgin."

"And I am one of those?" She asked half questioningly.

"Of course!" He answered.

"But.. we've established that Mr. Leland has held my hand and even you have kissed me," Emma said.

Knightley chuckled. "And yet that is quite not enough to render you otherwise," he explained.

"How would a ride to Box Hill do what no one else has done for my entire life, then?"

Knightley sighed very loudly. "Emma. This conversation is so entirely improper-"

"I'm very sorry," she interrupted, "and I'm sorry it's obviously so uncomfortable for you. But no one else will tell me. Please, Mr. Knightley."

He swallowed. "A, uh-a virgin, is a woman who has never lain with a man."

"Well, I'm not a virgin, then!" Emma said. "So I can ride with Mr. Leland."

"What?" Knightley snapped loudly.

Emma backed up a step. "Of course I'm not. Don't you remember, Mr. Knightley, when I was a little girl, and we used to go on picnics, and lie on the blanket and look up and find shapes in the clouds! I know you are my friend, sir, but you are also a man, are you not?"

Knightley let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Another euphemism, Emma; I'm sorry. I should say..." he searched for a neutral term, "a virgin is a woman who has never had carnal relations with a man." He bit off her interruption and tried to cut straight to the heart of the matter. "If you rode in a closed carriage with Mr. Leland, people would wonder if, along the way, you hadn't behaved together as... as only married people should behave."

"I'm afraid I'm even more confused by that, Mr. Knightley. How do married people behave? As my father and mother?"

Knightley closed his eyes. "No, Emma. They would wonder if Mr. Leland... touched you... in a way only a husband should. In a way," he added, "that a future husband might object to his wife having been touched."

"And how should I know if he did something objectionable or not?" Emma queried. "Apparently it is okay for you and I to lie on a blanket, and for Mr. Leland to take my waist to help me out of the carriage-"

"It's not okay for you and I to lie on a blanket," Knightley corrected her.

Emma looked startled. "But we did- am I- would a husband object?"

"I'm sure he would if we did now, Emma, but when you were a child, no one would think much of it." He answered her, reassuringly.

"This is all so odd," Emma sighed. "But you have still not answered my question. How can I judge whether or not Mr. Leland's touches will offend my imaginary future husband? And why should I care, anyway," she said in a moment of vision, "since I never wish to be married?"

"You should care, Emma," Knightley said gravely, "because whatever you may think of marriage, I am sure you would not wish to find yourself with the consequences."

"The consequences? I care little what people think!" Emma continued to protest.

"I was thinking more of a child," was the blunt response.

Emma turned crimson. "Touching... touching makes children?"

"Particular touching," Knightley replied vaguely.

"Particular? Mr. Knightley, I am going to become angry with you if you do not speak more plainly," Emma exclaimed. "And why should kind Mr. Leland, a gentleman, even want to touch me in a particular way if it makes children?"

"Because it feels good!" Knightley snapped.

"What?" Emma's face was all confusion, and Knightley felt contrition.

"Let me try to explain this clearly, once and for all, Emma," he said at last. "Touching-kisses, caresses, and other things-feels good. Enjoyable. One of the more pleasant things of life," a blush rose in his cheeks. "And in marriage, all is well. The touching results in children." He paused. "But not in marriage, you can see how such things should ruin a lady's reputation. A gentleman likes to know that his wife will be faithful, that their children will be his. And so he expects that his wife will be untouched on their wedding day."

Emma frowned. "But how would he know?"

"Well, there is the reputation of the woman to consider, for one;" Knightley explained, more in his element. "So, for instance, young ladies who make a habit of going riding in closed carriages with young men-who have created ample opportunity to be... compromised."

"And? For two?" Emma pressed.

"For two... a man can tell, Emma, if his wife has been touched before," he said awkwardly.

"How?" Emma asked.

Knightley sighed. "I think that is beyond the bounds of this conversation, Emma," he said gently. Seeing the hurt on her face, he added, "suffice it to say-there is a physical difference that accompanies virginity."

"So, can you tell I'm a virgin?"

He snorted softly. "No. Just-just your husband. It's a husband's right to know, alone."

"I'm so confused," Emma confessed. "But I will not press you. Still, Mr. Knightley... you said I should not allow a man to touch me, and yet clearly men do touch me, all the time... they take my hand, kiss my cheek, lift me out of the carriage or off my horse. How do I know what is okay, and what is not?"

Knightley frowned. "Surely you could ask Isabella-"

"She will tell me nothing. She says I am a child and she'll tell me when I'm out."

"And yet you are permitted to cavort with gentlemen like Mr. Leland, in ignorance!" His tones of frustration were evident.

"As well as with you, Mr. Knightley," Emma reminded him.

He regarded her seriously. "Emma, you have nothing to fear from me." After a long pause, he acquiesed. "Still, you should be told." He bit his lip.

"Thank you," Emma said earnestly.

Knightley's breath hissed through his teeth. "Well. You should not allow a man to do more than hold your hand or assist you out of carriages, unless you want him to think you are forming an attachment. And even in that case..." he hesitated. "Even if you are courting, a man should not... well, a courting man might kiss you lightly, or touch your face with his hand, or take your arm in his- but no more. He should never take off your gloves, or kiss you with great passion, or... touch or kiss you below your chin," he finished lamely. "To be specific."

"Kiss me below my chin?" Emma giggled. "That would be odd!"

"Not so odd, Emma." Knightley said quietly.

"Is that how husbands touch wives, then?" She wondered aloud.

"Another wholly inappropriate line of discussion, Emma," Knightley reminded her gently, looking at her again, noting the slight flush creeping up her neck and into her face.

Emma bit her lip. "I feel hot," she complained. "Although it's very chilly out here."

"This conversation must end, Emma," Knightley said quietly. "You'll understand all these things one day. But not today."

Emma turned to walk back to the house.

"Wait a moment," Knightley said quietly. "There is one more thing you must know, Emma."

She turned to look back at him.

"There is another danger in carriage rides, although I don't mean I think so ill of Mr. Leland himself-" he smiled slightly at Emma. "But... well, surely you have noticed that men are stronger than women, generally speaking."

"Naturally," she replied easily.

"In a carriage..." he struggled again. "Anytime you're alone with a man, if he's not a man of character... well, just remember than he is stronger than you. And that it's not as easy to determine who is a man of character or not."

"Do you mean Mr. Leland might try to steal kisses?" Emma teased. "You used to, when I was younger."

Knightley huffed at her. "As I have told you, Emma, those are an entirely different kind of kisses... brotherly, familial kisses." He frowned at her. "A man would steal a different kind of kiss."

"A kiss below my chin?" She said, still not serious.

"Much worse than that, Emma," Knightley said in the most forboding tones he could muster. Emma whitened although her brows still furrowed in confusion. But she said nothing. "Emma, friend, just remember-when you are alone with a man, any man, servant or prince or friend... your reputation is in his hands. And some men will destroy it." He took a few steps toward the house, coming even with her. "That's another reason you should not ride in a closed carriage."

"Now you're being just like Papa, Mr. Knightley. I know how to say no." she protested.

"That will dissuade most men, Emma, but you must not trust that it will dissuade them all." He shook his head. "Just beware, Emma, friend."


	3. Rescuing Emma

_Two years later._

"Sir?" Knightley looked up to see his butler standing in the doorway. "Miss Woodhouse is here to see you, sir. But her cloak is a fright with mud, and she won't hand it over-I was afraid for the furniture to just show her in."

Knightley cocked his head, a look of concern on his face. "Show her in. I'm sure the furniture can withstand a little mud for Miss Woodhouse's sake. Probably she's just off on some mission and not paying attention."

"She really looks a fright, sir," the butler repeated, as he went to fetch Emma. A moment later he returned, with her following close behind.

Knightley sucked in his breath. The man hadn't exaggerated. She was wearing one of her favorite velvet cloaks in a fine shade of dandelion yellow, one that Isabella had given her at Christmas when they were all together at Highbury... and indeed it was quite streaked with mud and grass stains now. On closer inspection, one of the neck clasps even seemed to be hanging loosely, and-there was something peculiar about her hair under the bonnet, although he wasn't quite sure what. Emma herself was white and faintly trembling-_what on earth had happened_?

"Is your father in good health?" He asked, not thinking of what else it might be.

"He is fine," she replied, voice quivering. "Can I talk to you, Mr. Knightley?" She glanced at the butler.

Knightley nodded perfunctorily and the butler left the room. To his surprise, Emma walked to the door and pushed it softly shut, but she said nothing else.

"Emma, old friend," he entreated. "What is wrong?"

She looked down at the floor. "Mr. Knightley, you said once that I had nothing to fear from you."

"Of course you don't!" he assured her. "Please, tell me what is on your mind. And-let me take your cloak, Emma; it's nearly tropical in here and you'll get mud on the furniture and send my housekeeper into conniptions."

He watched a shudder run from her shoulders down to her knees, and got to his feet as she swayed uncertainly on her feet.

Emma took a step backwards. "Well, it's my cloak that's the problem, I suppose," she said, obviously trying for a lighter tone and failing.

Knightley frowned when she stepped away from him. "Emma, why are you here, and not at home?" He made his voice as gentle as he could.

She straightened, met his eyes for a moment, before saying, quietly, "I don't believe my father could handle the stress. And Mrs. Weston is in London. And I'm in no condition to take the carriage." She looked at him again. "And you're my friend."

"I am, Emma," he tried to reassure her. When she said no more, he added, "but what is this all about?"

"I need help."

"Your cloak?" He said quizzically.

"It's more than my cloak," she sighed. "It really is a shame, though. I imagine it's beyond repair."

_More than her cloak?_ Knightley wondered, staring at her again. This time he noticed that her dress under the cloak was not much cleaner, and-was that a _tear_ at the bottom? And what had happened to the neckline? For a day dress, it was riding a little far from her neck, and had an oddly loose quality to it. He almost imagined he could see her chemise poking through on one edge. How very unlike Emma! His gaze rose to her bonnet. Yes, he could see it now: it looked like her maid had done an absolutely wretched job putting up her hair. It almost looked like it had just been hurriedly swept up and tucked under the bonnet with no pins to hold it to any kind of fashion.

Emma noticed his stare and reached up and untied the bonnet strings and pulled it off. Her blonde curls came tumbling out and made a very messy halo around her head-a halo littered with tiny leaves and sticks.

"Did you fall down a hill somewhere, Emma?" He asked at last, when she showed no sign of breaking the silence herself. He took a hesitant step towards her. "You have twigs in your hair."

Tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh, Mr. Knightley!" She wailed. "I think I am ruined."

Knightley froze, and stared at her in utter disbelief. Finally he recovered his voice. "What... what do you mean?" he asked in a strange tone Emma had never heard before. "What _happened_, Emma?"

"I can't tell you!" Emma said despairingly. "Oh, but I must. I just-oh, the shame," she said brokenly.

"Emma. You must know I am your friend, your true friend, no matter what," he assured her.

"I know, Mr. Knightley, and that's why I came to Donwell." And then she said no more, but sat on the sofa in her mud-spattered cloak.

After a minute, Knightley timidly prodded, "Emma?"

Emma seemed to be trying to compose herself. "Mr. Knightley. A long time ago, you told me... you talked to me when no one else would, and now, now you must do it again. I dare not bring this to Papa."

Knightley frowned. "Emma..."

"No," she interrupted. "You'll see." She bit her lip, stood up, and undid the clasp on her cloak. He reached out to assist her, but stopped when she flinched and inched away from his hand. She shrugged out of the cloak and he bit back a gasp of dismay. Her dress was in a worse state of disorder than he'd guessed; the lace around the neckline was soiled and torn, and the top-most buttons on the back seemed to be missing entirely, causing the entire thing to gape and, indeed, that flash of white was her chemise. He looked at her more closely again, and this time saw the tears in her stockings-was she missing one altogether?-and mud on her underskirt. His heart skipped a beat. "You see why I could not go home," she said bitterly.

"What- _who_, Emma?" he ground out.

"I was walking on the road with a basket for the Bromwells, you know, and Sally couldn't come today, but I thought, well, I knew the way, and all went well on the way there, but on my way home again, I... I ran into some, um, Gypsies. Or highwaymen. How do I tell the difference?" She murmured.

"Their clothing," he said dryly, voice still tense with uncertainty. "Whoever it was-they stole your purse?"

"They did," she said hesitatingly.

"I'm sure your father will get over the shock," he assured her. "I'll go with you to try to explain, if you like."

Emma was silent again, chewing on her bottom lip. "The thing is, Mr. Knightley... they didn't merely steal my purse."

There was no sound in the room at all as Knightley stared at her, eyes searching her face for meaning, refusing to make any suppositions of his own-refusing to even think!

Finally she gathered her courage. "Mr. Knightley. You told me once... you said... you said _touching_ led to _children_." She stared at his horrified face. "I think I need to know now what you meant by that."

George Knightley had never felt so empty in his entire life; he felt his entire chest constrict with a great force that seemed to pull inward so strongly that he thought it might break. He stared at her hollowly. "Emma. What did they _do_?" He whispered.

She seemed to retreat into herself for a moment. "Just one," she said flatly. "_He_, not _they_. Not dressed like gypsies, so I suppose they were regular highwaymen-"

"More likely," he agreed, seizing on the detail.

"He kissed me."

Knightley willed her to say no more.

"Below my chin, as you put it that day," she finished. "Am I ruined?"

He moved to sit next to her on the sofa. "Emma, we would _never_ let you be ruined by something like this, surely you know that-"

"How could you help it?" She asked. "You said husbands could tell if their wives were pure or not."

"We could certainly rescue your reputation," he assured her, "and, for the rest, well, we'd figure it out. Not all men would care-good men wouldn't care-" he broke off. "But if he only _kissed_ you, the more damage is surely to your spirit, my friend," he said comfortingly.

But Emma wilted. "I have to know, Mr. Knightley."

"There... there was more?" He asked, haltingly.

She nodded, a tear finally reaching beyond her best constraints and escaping down her cheek. He reached to brush it away, and again she flinched out of his reach.

Knightley sucked in his cheeks. "You- I should call the doctor," he said finally.

"If I'm not ruined, won't that make everything worse?" She asked in frustration. "Don't you _know_? Can't you just _tell me_?"

"Oh, Emma," he sighed.

"Don't talk to me about propriety, Mr. Knightley. I know this is all very improper. But you are my friend and my _only_ friend." She finally looked him solidly in the eyes. "Mr. Knightley, please."

"Emma..." he said helplessly.

She frowned. "Let's take this one piece at a time, then. Can I be with child? That would be the worst thing," she hurried on. "What... what _touching_ causes that?"

Knightley continued to stare at the girl, but she just stared back at him, waiting for an answer. Finally he settled on a more obscure approach. "Did it hurt?"

Emma cocked her head. "Of course it hurt. I was pushed to the ground and-look, he ripped off my buttons, did you see? It hurt."

Indeed Knightley could see the faintest shadow of an early bruise forming on her collarbone. He wondered what other bruises she'd gained. He thought he could just make out some faint ones around her upper arms that looked suspiciously like fingerprints. And, though he tried not to notice, there were faint fingerprint marks along the neckline of her dress as well. He suppressed a growl. "I'm going to kill the man," he said out loud.

Emma looked at him, horrified.

"I'm sorry," he said more gently. "Did-did he hurt you anywhere else, Emma?"

Still watching him cautiously, Emma nodded. "It felt like it hurt everywhere. The stones digging in my back, his fingers digging into me, pinning me..." she stopped. "What does it take, Mr. Knightley? Where-how much-kissing me?"

"Kissing doesn't create children," he answered abruptly. "Just... other things." He had no idea how to be vague and yet give her the answers she so desperately needed. How to not scare her off the idea of marriage forever.

"Mr. Knightley," Emma began in annoyance, but he cut her off.

"I'm trying to think, Emma. Of how to phrase this to you."

"You can just tell me straight out," she said vehemently. "I think, after whatever I just went through, that I don't need to be mollycoddled!"

Knightley frowned and nodded slightly in agreement. "Then I think the best way to ask this, Emma..." he paused. "Did you... bleed?"

"I think I bumped my head," she said, confused, reaching up to pat her hair. "Is it bloody?"

He shook his head. "No, Emma, I mean," he paused and repeated his question. "Did you bleed anywhere else?"

"He bit me," she whispered.

Knightley clenched his jaw. "Oh, Emma. I am so sorry." After a minute, he urged her on, "but-no more? Not... well, just, no more?"

Emma frowned. "I don't think so," she whispered.

He stood up at last. "I think you should not worry about a child, then, Emma." He added, hesitantly, "or... or a husband. I do not think he would know." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Although, if you _are_ going to marry a man, Emma, you should tell him-more than you've told me-you should tell him what happened to you today. Not because he would mind, because if he is a good man, he won't, but because he might," Knightley hesitated, "he might treat you more carefully. If you tell him."

Emma's face was awash with relief. "Thank you, Mr. Knightley." She stood up. "I suppose I had better invent some story... falling down a hill, did you say?"

Knightley nodded, his body still full of tension.

"Emma," he said as she pulled her cloak back on and walked to the door. "Could you recognize the man?"

"I'm sure I could, Mr. Knightley," she answered, "but what could be done? You could not attack him, even as magistrate, without me as witness. And then I _would_ be ruined, wouldn't I?" Emma's face was full of uncertainty.

Knightley nodded again. "Yes," he said regretfully.

"Because of the kissing," she added.

He just stared at her sadly.

"I didn't like it, Mr. Knightley."

"I know," he replied in a low voice.

"You said... you said it felt _good_."

He wasn't sure if that was a question or an accusation, and less sure that it mattered. "It should, Emma. It should be different, than it was." He paused, and she started to open the door. "I'm sorry, Emma," Knightley added helplessly. "If you need to talk-you can surely talk to Mrs. Weston when she returns-but I will talk to you, too, poor though I am at it."

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley," Emma said, in a voice much more toneless than Knightley would have liked to have heard it. "I'm going home now, before Papa worries."


	4. Reassuring Emma

Two days later, Knightley had not seen or heard from Emma. She was absent from her daily walk, had not visited the parishioners with her mercy baskets, and Mrs. Bates had mentioned that she had not been at the party last night.

When he went to Highbury to investigate, he was met by Mr. Woodhouse. "Come to see Emma, my boy?" the old man queried.

Knightley frowned. "Has she recovered from her... fall?" He asked, with only a slight hesitation.

Mr. Woodhouse shook his head. "No, the poor child was so damaged; I've a mind to never let her go out on a walk again, if she's going to be so careless!" He leaned in and said in a lower tone. "She's absolutely covered in bruises. Head to toe. Well, maybe not her toes," he rambled, "but her abigail tells me she's never seen so many bruises. Arms, legs... child's a black and blue mess, apparently. Nancy can't even figure out how she managed to get some of them. Seems to have fallen into a nest of twigs or something, to look at her." He shook his head. "She says she's so sore that she can't even get out of bed. Turned her ankle, apparently."

Listening to Mr. Woodhouse's speech, Knightley's heart sank. _Turned her ankle?_ Knightley couldn't remember anything about Emma's ankle from when she appeared on his doorstep. That was a worrying sign. "Is she available for visitors, Mr. Woodhouse?"

The old man furrowed his brow. "I can't imagine that she's receiving in general, poor thing. But she's always been fond of you and might make an exception, I suppose. Might do her good." He waved his arm in the direction of the staircase. "Can't expect her to come down, though." He toddled on into the library, leaving Knightley standing alone in the entry hall. He sighed pensively before climbing the stairs up to Emma's room. She was really too old, and he too much of a bachelor, but if her father had nothing to say on the matter, he thought he'd go up this one final time. He resolved to try to avoid such visits in the future, though, and thought, not for the first time, that what Emma really needed was a companion. Which would have prevented this entire thing. He'd have to speak to Mr. Woodhouse about the idea. But, for now... Emma. He stared at the wooden door in front of him, and knocked softly. "Emma?" He called. "It's me."

He heard a rustling inside and then her voice called out, much weaker than he expected to hear, "Mr. Knightley?" He hesitated. "Come in," she finished. He opened the door to a startling sight. Emma was white and haggard, covered by mounds of blankets. There was a clear bruise on her cheek. Leaving the door open, he came to sit in the chair next to the bed.

"Hello, Mr. Knightley," she said uncertainly.

"I haven't seen you out," he said quietly. "Your father said you turned your ankle."

"I didn't want to go out," Emma apologized, "so I needed an excuse."

Knightley bit his lip. "Emma, I know it's hard, but... I think it would be good for you to not stay in the house."

Emma got out of the bed and walked over to the window. She turned around when she heard Knightley's sharp intake of breath. "What is it, Mr. Knightley? Repulsed by what you see?"

"Emma," he said very carefully, "what happened to your neck?"

Her hands flew to her neck, a blush spreading over her face as she realized his euphemism, because it was more her upper chest than her neck that he must have meant. She'd rubbed the skin raw, along with her calves, thighs, and even toes, but _he_ didn't need to know that. "Just-was hard to get the dirt off," she said reluctantly.

Knightley's eyebrows knit together, but he didn't reply. For a long period, neither of them said anything at all; she looked out the window and he looked at her. Finally he spoke. "Emma, you didn't tell me; how did you escape?"

She whirled around. "His companions told him he was fishing for trouble because I was a gentlewoman, and that they'd better hurry if they wanted to escape with their necks." Emma bit her lip. "I couldn't fight him," she said whispered. "I think of it over and over in my mind and, oh, Mr. Knightley, I'm not even sure I _tried_."

Knightley's look of pity was more than she could bear, and less than she could interpret.

"Mr. Knightley... what does that _make_ me?" She asked. "What kind of woman doesn't try to get away?"

He took a step towards her before remembering her reaction earlier, and tried to make his tones as encouraging as he could. "You were petrified, Emma," he began, and she nodded. "I'm sure you weren't thinking of anything clearly." He pursed his lips. "You can't blame yourself," he finished.

"I didn't know how to fight even if I wanted to," she continued. "He was so strong. I felt like... like I couldn't move. He was like stone."

Anger surged through Knightley. "I feel like he should be caught, Emma," he said. "Or at least, you should tell your father, and he can decide what to do."

"No!" Emma's fear was palpable. "You _cannot_ tell Papa. There is nothing to be done-we established that yesterday. Nothing Papa could do. I fear for his heart."

"And for your own freedom, I imagine," Knightley added. "He'd never let you out again." He sighed. "Still. I think I will tell the constable that I've heard a rumor of highwaymen, and ask him to increase the patrol-and maybe they'll catch them. They can hang for their thievery alone."

Emma nodded wordlessly.

"I'll go now," he said abruptly, and started toward the door. "But, Emma- dear, dear friend." He looked at her solemnly. "You must _know_ this is not your fault. And," he added quietly, "the dirt is all gone. You're clean." And then he was gone.

A couple of weeks later, the constable caught the highwaymen, and in due time, they were tried and hung. Knightley hoped it was the end of Emma's troubles, for he hated to see his young friend so disturbed. Something of her old glow was greatly dimmed, enough that Mrs. Weston began to notice and remarked on it to Knightley, who was surprised that Emma had not confided in her old governess. She was beginning to resume her old activities, but something still seemed to burn with shame.


	5. Trapping Emma

_A/N: And here we begin to deviate from canon..._

As he waited impatiently for his valet to fetch his coat, George Knightley looked at the note that had arrived at Donwell only minutes ago for what must be the tenth time: "_You must come immediately and persuade Emma to marry Elton. -John._"

And that was it. What could his brother possibly mean?

Finally his valet bustled in. "Here you go, sir," he said, holding the coat out so Knightley could put his arms in. "I suppose you're off to wish Miss Emma well, then?" The valet said conversationally.

"Wish her well?" Knightley paused. "I'm afraid I've missed the latest gossip," he encouraged, even as his heart was growing ever heavier. It was never a good sign to hear of something from the belowstairs.

"Well, Reverend Elton is sure to offer for her, after last night," the valet said. "But I shouldn't gossip, sir."

"No," Knightley agreed. Last night? The party? What on earth had happened after he took the Bates family home?

He wasted no time in his short journey to the Woodhouse home.

Isabella was there to meet him at the door. "Oh, George, you _must_ prevail on Emma," she begged. "She's so sly, doing this all under our noses, but- well."

John strode up. "Did you know about this, George?" He demanded. "She seems to think it was just a silly flirtation, but Elton! He offered this morning, of course, and the silly child refused him!"

Knightley frowned. "Why on earth should Elton offer for Emma?"

"After last night, how could he not!" Isabella exclaimed. "Oh, it'll be the ruin of us all." She sighed. "She won't listen to _anyone_, even Papa, and Papa... he's declared no one should go to parties ever again, and that he'll die of some trifle without Emma to watch over him, and that _she'll_ be dying in childbirth soon, just like Mama..."

"Emma... in childbirth?" Knightley said. "What on earth has happened?"

"You mean you haven't _heard_?" Isabella said, disbelievingly.

Knightley started to shake his head as John explained. "Last night, Elton was taking Emma home-"

"Why?" Knightley interrupted.

John looked chagrined. "Well, I had to take Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella home..." He trailed off weakly.

"You left her to _Elton_?" Knightley exclaimed. "That's completely improper."

John bit his lip. "Well, yes, technically, but, George... Elton! A harmless man if ever I saw one! A man of the cloth!"

Knightley pursed his lips. "If he's so harmless, then what happened?"

"_Emma_ happened," Isabella said vaguely.

"According to Elton, it was entirely Emma's doing," John explained. "He proposed-which was stupid and poorly ordered since he hadn't spoken to Emma's father, but adequately forgivable, apparently he felt sure of his acceptance-and Emma," he paused, "well, according to Elton, she simply flung herself out of the carriage."

"While it was moving?" Knightley exclaimed. "Is she all right?"

John nodded. "A bit bruised." He frowned. "The thing of it is, she waited until they were smack in the middle of Highbury. So she tumbled out of the carriage, screaming, in full view of the entire village."

"And they drew the obvious conclusion," Isabella added tartly. "I can't imagine what she was thinking. But then, Emma never was sensible."

Knightley flicked a look of irritation at his sister-in-law, but didn't respond.

"So," John finished, "he offered this morning, once the rumor mill was unstoppable."

"And she said no?" Knightley asked shakily.

"She's going to ruin us all, George," Isabella said petulantly. "You have to talk to her."

"Go up," John added darkly. "She won't come out."

And so it was that Knightley found himself once again shadowing Emma's bedchamber door. He knocked. "Emma?"

To his relief, her little voice called out in answer. "Mr. Knightley?"

Finding the handle unlocked, he slowly opened the door. Emma was sitting in the windowseat.

She looked up. "Well. You're a relief. I love John and Isabella dearly, but..." she trailed off. "At least you will be a relief from those trying to convince me to marry that vexing, odious little toad." She squinted at him. "What _have_ you come to chide me for today, Mr. Knightley? I know my behavior was abhorrent, but, I assure you, his was _far_ worse."

Knightley left the door open and came to sit next to her in the window. "Emma, why don't you tell me what happened? Why would you jump out of a moving carriage just because of a marriage proposal, however unwanted?"

Emma bit her lip. "You can't tell."

"Emma, I cannot promise you secrecy. It's not my place." He paused. "I can't imagine Elton-though he is surely an unpleasant fellow, and not one I would choose for my acquaintance-but I have no reason to think him so dishonorable..." he stopped.

"He did _not_ behave with honor," Emma said sharply.

Knightley's brows knit together. "Explain," he said simply.

"He _kissed_ me, Mr. Knightley," she protested. "On my _mouth_." She glared at him. "It was _grotesque_."

"And that made you feel the need to leap from a moving carriage and risk your very neck?" He asked quietly.

"He..." she trailed off. "Oh, I know it sounds silly. I would have thought it was silly, a month ago, before..."

Knightley just nodded solemnly.

"So, he, when we got in the carriage and had been riding for a bit, he suddenly came towards me and sat next to me and grabbed my hand and... proposed! And I told him he must be mistaken-me for Harriet, you know-and-suddenly he was grabbing my face in a most unpleasant manner and... kissing me!" She looked away. "I asked him to please stop at once, you know, and he kept on trying to persuade me, and, oh, Mr. Knightley, now I understand what you meant about being careful who I climb into carriages with!" She swallowed. "I know it sounds silly, but I was so frightened. So I opened the door and leapt out."

"In the middle of town square," Knightley added.

Emma nodded. "And I don't want to marry him; I loathe the man's very being! I don't understand why everyone keeps fussing that I _must_ marry him."

Knightley grimaced. "Everyone saw, Emma. It's the talk of the town. Even my servants were discussing it."

"I don't see what it signifies even if the whole world saw," Emma returned defiantly.

"Because everyone who saw can draw one of two conclusions," Knightley explained. "Either you are in such a relationship with Mr. Elton that he can drive you to such anger as to recklessly jump out of carriages, or else he assaulted your person in such a way that you felt it was necessary to exit." Seeing Emma's still uncomprehending glare, he added reluctantly, "Either way, it is... unlikely... that any gentleman hearing the story would still wish to make you his wife. It was... a spectacle."

"That's..." Emma paused. "Men are imbeciles."

Knightley nodded very slightly. "Perhaps."

"At any rate, since I have no desire to marry, and certainly no desire to marry Mr. Elton, I think the best thing to do is just forget it and move on," she said with a little more confidence than she seemed to feel.

"It's a little more complicated than that, Emma," Knightley said sadly. "You have to consider your family."

"My family?" She asked in surprise.

"Elton is well known in London," Knightley explained, "And so, of course, are John and Isabella." Emma nodded, and he continued. "And their children. Children who would like to make good marriages themselves."

"What on earth does this have to do with that?" her voice was irritated and impatient.

"This will get back to London," he said with certainty. "Too many people saw. Too many people are talking." He looked her square in the eyes and slowly finished. "Emma, neither of our families is titled. And while there is plenty of money to go around in Highbury, our niece Emma won't have enough of a dowry to outweigh the disadvantage of a, um, a... a ruined aunt. Not if she hopes to make an advantageous match."

Emma gasped in dismay. "Ruined? Is that what I am now, Mr. Knightley?" Tears welled up in her eyes and Knightley reached over and grasped her hands in one of his own, flinching when she wrenched away from him like an alley cat. "Don't _touch_ me," she hissed angrily.

"I'm sorry, Emma," he said, voice unsteady, and he rose and walked to the door.

"If I marry him, it will fix everything?"

He bit his lip so hard he could taste the blood in his mouth. "It will avert the scandal," he replied, not turning to look at her.

There was silence in the room for a long time, but Knightley still studied the door and did not lookat Emma. Finally he heard her answer. "Tell them I'll marry him, then," she said in a tiny voice. "For Emma and the boys."

He nodded wordlessly and shut the door behind him as he left.


	6. Terrifying Emma

Isabella was, of course, delighted to have her children's prospects restored and Emma safely settled, as she saw it, but Mr. Woodhouse couldn't restrain himself from talking about the possibility of Emma dying in childbirth, and he didn't seem to notice the way Emma blanched every time he brought it up. Finally Knightley decided something had to be done, and he cornered his brother John one day in the library.

"You've got to tell Mr. Woodhouse to stop pestering Emma about childbirth," he said with no preamble.

John looked up in astonishment. "What? Why? Emma knows her father; I don't see why she should be any more sensitive to his wild rantings now than she's ever been. He's always too worried about her, and she always disregards his fears."

Knightley nodded. "But I think it isn't the birth part that frightens her, it's the reminder that she will be... a wife."

"You mean to say you believe she's afraid of Elton himself?" John asked in disbelief. "But the man is harmless."

Knightley paused, wondering what to say without betraying Emma's secret. "I think," he finally ventured, "that she's a little bit afraid of men in general."

"Well, Isabella can set her straight on that," John said. "I'll remind her to talk to her. She should, anyway, before they wed. Give the poor girl an idea what to expect."

The odd tight feeling in Knightley's chest just grew stronger. "But, surely, Elton knows this is just... well, not a love match?" He amended lamely. "Surely he knows she despises him."

John looked at his brother in surprise. "The man was asking for an honest marriage, George. It's hardly his fault that she reacted in the bizarre way she did and then had to accept him. His living is entailed, you know."

"He'll want an heir, then," Knightley sighed.

"Unlike you," John said lightly, "Elton doesn't have the leisure of a younger brother with a mass of children waiting in the wings to inherit." He smirked. "Nonetheless; you bring up a good point, and I'll make sure Isabella talks to Emma immediately. Sets her mind at ease. Makes her duty clear. It's hardly Elton's fault, whatever her personal dislike of the fellow."

It was only a few days later when Knightley was walking through the gardens on the way to the main house when he overheard glimmers of a conversation through the hedgerow. He was just about to announce his presence when the clear note of anger in Elton's voice made him pause.

"...I cannot _pretend_ to understand you, madam," Elton said in an icy tone.

Knightley jumped at the tone of desperation in Emma's voice. "Mr. Elton, please. Youmust understand that I have no regard for you- I mean, I respect you, but I never intended to marry anyone at all."

"Nevertheless, because of your own foolish behavior-" Knightley winced at Elton's words, "-you are marrying me. And you will be my wife." He hissed the final word.

"Maybe... maybe one day, sir," Emma stuttered out, "if you could only give me time-"

"Miss Woodhouse," came the languid response, "you are marrying me next month. I do not approve of false marriages."

Knightley frowned. What on earth were they talking about?

"You repulse me, sir," Emma replied, her own tone growing cold.

"You had better think on it," he replied flatly. "You may bow out, of course, and take your reputation in the shreds you have made of it. Or," he paused, "you may marry me. In truth. Think which you prefer."

From the series of sounds he heard next, Knightley surmised that Elton had kissed her, rather harshly, and then he heard a ringing slap followed by soft swearing in Elton's voice. "If you do that on our wedding night, madam..." he trailed off threateningly. "Make your choice."

The next sound was of Elton's boots cracking against the brick walk as he strode angrily away, and the soft sound of sobs. Knightley quickly made his way over to the other side of the hedgerow. "Emma?" he ventured quietly to the sobbing girl sitting on the stone bench.

Emma jumped. "Mr. Knightley!" She rubbed hastily at her eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't, I mean, well, I'm sorry."

Knightley considered his next words carefully, and chose to confess. "Emma, I'm afraid I was accidentally eavesdropping just now." His face was lined with distress. "I'm sorry. I understand if you don't want to talk about it. And, goodness, I understand that it's entirely improper _to_ talk about it." He swallowed. "But-I am your friend," he said simply, and left it at that.

She looked at him gratefully. "I'm petrified, Mr. Knightley," she said. "Isabella told me... oh, the things she told me! Things you know already, I suppose. And... I despise the man I am to wed. I despise the very idea of everything Isabella said, and it's doubly worse that it's Mr. Elton to whom they apply." Her face was full of disgust. "I cannot believe he would ask me that," she finished, "knowing that I have no affection for him in the least."

Knightley cleared his throat. "He wants to marry for an heir," he explained. "The parsonage is entailed away on his second cousin if he doesn't produce one."

"But surely he doesn't need to... produce one... on our wedding night?"

He looked away. "I imagine he's quite offended by you."

"Because I refused him?"

Knightley just nodded.

"Well. I can hardly back out now," Emma said tightly, "even I can see the disgrace that would fall on my head if I broke this off." Knightley still said nothing, so she continued hesitantly, "but, well, did you hear? I merely asked for time, even though I can't imagine ever wanting to... to... and-" she broke off.

"And he intends to consummate your marriage immediately," Knightley finished helpfully.

"Or else I had better break it off and not marry him at all," she said glumly. "Which I can't do." She bit her lip. "But, Mr. Knightley, I truly don't think I _can_. After... after the brigand. I am even more terrified than I ever could have imagined."

"You could tell him," Knightley said thoughtfully. "He might be moved to pity."

"He might also be moved to think of me as tarnished goods and break the whole thing off himself, leaving me in an even worse state," she retorted.

Knightley watched her sadly but said nothing. It was a distinct possibility.

Her eyes brightened. "You're the magistrate!" She exclaimed eagerly. "I could tell him... on our wedding night... if-" she blushed, "if he touched me, and didn't wait as I've asked, I could threaten to tell you, and you could prosecute him."

Knightley shook his head. "I couldn't do anything, Emma, and he'd know it was an empty threat."

She looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean? Ravishment is surely against the law!"

"The law has little to say about what a husband does with his wife," he explained regretfully. "Remember Albert Martin?"

Emma's face fell. "You mean..." she stopped.

"Short of murdering you, there's little he could do that the law would interfere." Seeing the very real fear on her face, he added quickly, "But-I have no reason to think he's that sort of man."

"You mean that he wouldn't hit me. Like Albert Martin." She said dully.

He nodded.

"But the other..."

Knightley decided it was no time to be coy or vague. "From what I overheard of the conversation," he said, "I think he was giving you full warning that, yes, you should not marry him if you don't want him to assert his... his rights."

Emma visibly shivered. Then she looked at her old friend. "Kiss me, Mr. Knightley."

Knightley stared at her in complete shock. "_What_?"

"Kiss me. I hate him. I don't hate you." She frowned at him. "You're a man. Enough of one, anyway-" Knightley snorted, but she continued. "I feel that little twinge of fear when you're around, a pinch deep in my belly, ever since... that..."

"Bastard," he supplied. She winced.

"Yes. And suddenly I'm more aware of you-of your height and weight and, oh, that danger you tried to warn me against about riding in carriages with men, and I remember you carrying me back home that day years ago after I sprained my ankle, and even though I try not think about it, Mr. Knightley, because you _are_ my friend, you're still very large and powerful and... a little frightening," she finished reluctantly.

"Oh, Emma, don't be afraid of me," he sighed.

"But in this case, it's perfect, you see," she explained. "If I can't kiss you, then... then Mr. Elton will surely... I should call it off. But if I _can_ kiss you, then maybe I can stand Mr. Elton and his... vile caresses."

Knightley swallowed.

"Please, friend?" She entreated.

He frowned, but came over and sat next to her on the bench. She flinched as he brushed her hair off her neck and pulled her head towards his. He looked in her eyes and tilted his head as he angled for the kiss, briefly wondering what kissing Emma was going to be like.

And then she wrenched out of his grip and ran crying towards the house, leaving him sitting on the cold stone bench and wondering what on earth Emma was going to do about Elton.


	7. Hurting Emma

_**UPDATE AT END. **A/N: Thank you all, so very very much, for your lovely reviews. I would love to be able to update more regularly, but unfortunately my life affords me little opportunity to sit typing away at my laptop. I steal away to do so whenever I can, but—it is rare. But I loathe abandoned stories and have no intention of leaving you with one! I just have little time to write. Your reviews are incredibly encouraging. Also, I found the little dash symbol! Sorry about the previous bad formatting; I am still learning so many things about . It ate my old dashes, and some of my breaks. I will try to fix it all eventually. Anyway, I am sorry this chapter is so short; I wanted to post something to answer all the reviews, but I have not had much time to write more. :)_

Knightley was sitting in the library at Donwell the next morning when the butler showed Emma in. He rose to his feet. "Emma," he said, warmly and openly.

She looked at him with an unreadable look on her face, then blurted out, "I want you to try it again." She spared a moment to look at her feet, then added quickly, "And don't let me run away this time."

"Don't _let you_ run away?" Knightley repeated slowly.

"Maybe it won't be so bad," she explained.

Knightley shook his head. "Emma..."

"I was going to call it off," she interrupted, "but Isabella cornered me and she is in such a state—you know how she is—and she was angry and flighty and I'm sure she didn't mean half the things she said, but, well, she _said_ them, and, Mr. Knightley, I can't call it off."

Knightley hadn't the least idea what to say. "I think you should tell her," he said at last. "About the highwayman. About why you are so unwilling to marry Elton."

"Oh, if only I could!" Emma exclaimed. "But you and I both know she'd never manage the stress."

"I'll tell John, then," Knightley amended, "and he can convince Isabella somehow to stop pestering you."

"But what about baby Emma?" She protested. "Her aunt can't ruin her prospects. I can hardly tell the entire town."

"Ah, Emma, I think the matter is overstated," he said. "I think it will blow over, long before our little niece's come-out."

"That isn't what you said before," Emma's voice was sharp.

"I didn't realize the extent of your... opposition," Knightley said carefully.

Emma frowned. "Still. I want to try one last time, Mr. Knightley."

"Try?"

"_Kiss me_, please, Mr. Knightley." Emma's words hung in the air as neither party moved. "Don't let me run away," she added, lowly.

Knightley sighed. "I shouldn't have let you talk me into the idea yesterday, Emma. You're not going to talk me into it today!"

"But, Mr. Knightley, have mercy! Think of my wedding night!" She blushed as she heard her own words. "I mean—think, if I _can't_ abide it, think... think what a fix it will be."

"My kissing you and Elton's kissing you are hardly the same thing," he retorted, with as much finality as he could muster.

But Emma was ready for him. "Oh, I know, and I was thinking of that last night, that I shouldn't have thought a single kiss would smooth the path for... well, for anything." She looked up and met his icy glare defiantly. "So, if the kiss is tolerable, then, you can help me see if... other things are tolerable, too."

"_What?_" Knightley thundered, and Emma backed up a step.

"I don't mean... _that_, Mr. Knightley," she hastened to explain, "just, that, like I said, it occurred to me that bearing a kiss might not be proof of anything."

Knightley muttered something under his breath that Emma didn't quite catch but thought sounded possibly scandalous. He gritted his teeth and glared at her. "Emma, you do _not_ come to a gentleman's house, unescorted, and demand that he kiss and do _other things_ to you. It is beyond reason!"

Emma gathered all the courage she possessed and walked so close to him that their boots nearly touched. "Mr. Knightley, you are my friend!"

"And I will not participate in this crazy, harebrained scheme of yours," he retorted.

Emma bit her lip and then played her final card. She lifted her hand and as artfully as she could imagine, gently brushed his cheek. He opened his mouth to protest and she quickly shushed him. "Kiss me, Mr. Knightley!"

Anger coursed through him. "Do _not_ manipulate me!" he snapped, grabbing her wrist tightly and pushing it away.

"Mr. Knightley!" she cried, as tears began to well in her eyes. "I just—"

He let go of her wrist and pinned her shoulders instead, bending his head and pressing his mouth to hers. Except instead of the lightest brush of lips that he'd intended the previous afternoon, in this moment he was determined to give her the full taste she unthinkingly demanded, and kissed her so roughly and deeply that he could feel her trying to pull away. He kept his grip. Then, "is that what you wanted, Emma?" His voice was low and more dangerous than she'd ever heard it.

Emma's face was ashen and for a moment, he felt like his tight grip of her shoulders was all that kept her from falling. Then he realized she was still fighting to pull away, and as he felt like his stomach was trying to come up through his throat at the same time as his heart was diving for his feet, he let her go.

She flew out the door before he could so much as say her name.

* * *

Knightley didn't see Emma for a few days. He tried; he composed himself in a minute and ran instantly off to Highbury in an attempt to apologize, but Emma was _not in_, as the butler informed him with a confused and apologetic look on his face. Finally he ran into her in the town one day.

"Good day, Mr. Knightley," she said, quickly speaking before he had the opportunity. They stood in the doorway of one of the shops.

"Good day, dear Emma," he replied. "I am so sorry—"

"Mr. Knightley," she interrupted, "I don't know how it came about that you still refer to me as _Emma_, but I passed my fifth birthday many years ago, and the time has long since passed for you to refer to me as _Miss Woodhouse_, as other gentlemen do, hasn't it?"

Her voice had all the sound of sweetness but none of the warmth, and Knightley felt his insides turn to frost. "I'm sorry to have offended you," he said uncertainly.

"Oh, no offense, Mr. Knightley," she said lightly. "It's a wrong easily corrected. Good day, Mr. Knightley," she said again, stepping out of the shop.

"Em—Miss Woodhouse, I mean," he stumbled, "please, I would talk to you—"

She shook her head and smiled calmly. "Mr. Knightley, I must be going. I'm sure it can wait."

"But—"

"Good day," she said for a third time as she pushed past him to walk down the street, leaving him with no possible way to follow her in such a public place without making a scene.

"Was that Emma?" Harriet Smith's voice broke into his thoughts from inside the shop. He hadn't seen her there earlier, and wondered if she had heard the exchange, and what she had made of it. But Harriet wasn't finished talking. "Did you hear? She _broke off_ the engagement with Mr. Elton!" She rolled her eyes and Mr. Knightley was reminded of all the reasons he had originally thought her an unsuitable companion for his young friend. "It's quite the scandal," Harriet added.

"She broke it off?" Knightley said in surprise.

"It's quite the scandal," Harriet repeated. "Mrs. Goddard says—well, perhaps it doesn't signify what Mrs. Goddard says. Emma was a very good friend to me."

"She was?"

"Well, of course she was," Harriet rattled on, "but of course that's behind us now."

"Pardon?" Knightley said in confusion.

"Oh, Mrs. Goddard won't let me socialize with her _now_, of course..."

Knightley frowned. "Mrs. Goddard—" He thought better of what he'd been ready to say, and amended it. "I'm sorry that she feels that way. Perhaps she will regain her opinion in due time," he smiled encouragingly at Harriet. "Good day, Miss Smith," he concluded, and strode quickly out of the shop.


	8. Emma Ostracized

It didn't take George Knightley very long to figure out why Mrs. Goddard wouldn't let Harriet—lowly baseborn child that she was—associate with the mistress of Highbury. The entire town seemed to be under the impression that Mr. Elton—who had run off to London almost immediately—had been the victim of such a vicious _jilt_ because he had reason to suspect that an annulment would be the short result of his impending marriage, for the result of discovering that the bride was no virgin on their wedding night and had falsely represented herself.

Knightley could have little doubt that it was Mr. Elton himself who had started the rumor, and he was furious. But there was nothing to be done about it, especially with Elton conveniently away to the City, and, in truth, Knightley knew that if he allowed himself to consider the matter too carefully, that he would realize that Elton's assumption was a logical one, however cruel his apparent revelation of his conclusions had been.

Still, Knightley knew that Emma had to be horribly hurt by this turn of events, and wondered if she knew yet just how deep her apparent ostracism from society was going to run.

* * *

Emma had pretty well sequestered herself at Highbury. How _could_ Mr. Knightley have kissed her like that? In its own way, the kiss had been worse than Mr. Elton's or even the highwayman's had been. Didn't he know she trusted him? She could think of nothing else all night or all day except for her intense confusion over Mr. Knightley's bizarre behavior. Of course she had asked him to do it, but in all his wisdom he should have known better than to indulge her!

But she did know that there was no possible way she could bear being Mrs. Elton, and she wasted no further time in calling off the wedding. Mr. Elton said some cruel words and then left in a huff for London, and Emma really didn't mind.

She soon noticed, however, that Harriet's frequent visits had come to a puzzling halt, the mail seemed to run with less frequency, and, finally, she realized that there had been a party at the Coles to which she had not been invited. Even the Misses Martin had begun to walk to the other side of the street when they saw her coming—she was being snubbed by mere _peasants_—and when she brought around a basket to the poor, the poor seemed a little less ingratiating than usual.

So Emma called for a carriage and made haste to the Westons.

The carriage got stuck, however, when she tried to ford a flooded part of the road, and she sat there for quite some minutes wondering what to do when a young man came up on horseback.

"Hello, miss," he chimed. "Do you need some assistance?"

"Oh, please!" She said. "I was on my way to visit my dear friend Mrs. Weston, but the wheel seems to be quite stuck."

"Mrs. Weston! I am on my way there myself!" exclaimed the gentleman.

"Why—you must be Frank Churchill," Emma said with surprise. "But they did not expect you until tomorrow!"

"You have the advantage of me," Frank replied, sidling his horse up to Emma's and unhitching her mare from the traces.

Emma smiled and said serenely, "I'm Emma Woodhouse. Mrs. Weston was my governess!"

An unreadable expression came over Frank's face and his eyes glinted playfully, and a little bit wickedly, to Emma's imagination. But then he bowed lightly in the saddle, and said very politely, "it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Emma Woodhouse of Highbury."

Emma struggled to get on the back of her mare as he brought it around to the carriage, and then he led it out of the water, where they both dismounted.

"All rescued, Miss Woodhouse," he said gallantly. "Shall we continue to the Westons? I wouldn't want you to get lost in any more puddles along the way!"

"I thank you, sir!" Emma replied warmly.

"Shall we walk, or ride?" Frank asked.

"Mr. Churchill!" Emma exclaimed, "I have not mastered the art of perching precariously on an unsaddled horse, so we shall have to walk!"

"You could ride my horse, and I could ride yours," he offered.

"But the saddle is a gentleman's saddle," she protested. "I should be afraid to fall."

"You would not fall if you rode astride," he replied deviously.

"Mr. Churchill! You amaze me! You know it is not proper," Emma laughed. "Come along, now, let us hurry and walk, or Mrs. Weston will begin to worry."

So the two proceeded to walk, on foot, all the way to the Westons. By the time they arrived, Emma was quite as much in love with Frank as she'd ever imagined she might be upon meeting the illustrious Mr. Churchill, and she'd managed to put her problems with Mr. Elton almost completely out of her mind.

* * *

"Mr. Knightley!"

Knightley turned around at the sound. He'd been walking the paths between Donwell and Highbury for days on end hoping to catch Emma and apologize as thoroughly as he could once again, and whirled around in shock that not only was the object of his search standing in front of him, but was actually talking to him in as plain and lovely a tone as he'd ever heard.

"Mr. Knightley!" Emma repeated. "I'm so glad to see you, old friend—have you _met_ Frank?"

"Frank? Frank who?" Knightley was all confusion. "Emm-Miss Woodhouse—"

"Oh, bother that, Mr. Knightley; I'm sorry, please call me Emma and excuse me for being such a simpering little fool."

"What?"

"Well of course you should call me Emma, just as Miss Bates calls me Emma; it's really proper for you being so very much older than I am—"

Knightley thought she was funning him by the dreadful comparison to Miss Bates, but quickly realized that the poor girl was just so very distracted that she was paying very little heed to any of the other words that flew out of her mouth.

"Anyway, Mr. Knightley," she teased, "as I was saying, have you met Frank?"

"Frank Churchill?" He asked warily, for what other Frank could she possibly mean.

"Yes! Dear Mr. Weston's son! Home at last!"

"I met him," Knightley said.

"Met him and _loved_ him!" Emma enthused.

"Well, I am not quite sure of that!" He frowned at her. "You have, though, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes!" She grabbed his arm. "Walk with me, friend! I have a favor to ask of you, you see."

"Anything, Emma," he said graciously.

"Frank and I have no where to socialize!" Her joy faltered a little bit. "Everyone won't have me around, you see; even the villagers are acting like I've come down with some contagion. The Westons will have me, of course, but if they invite _me_ to a dinner party then there other guests won't come, and it's hardly fair to keep the Westons' friends and Frank so separated—"

Knightley looked at her suspiciously. "What do you have in mind, Emma?"

"I thought if _you_ organized and held a picnic—up on Box Hill, say—and invited everyone... you are so imminently _respectable_ that I'm sure people would attend." Emma stumbled over a root that Knightley hadn't even seen, and he caught her arm. She looked up at him and then immediately away. "They might come, even if I came too," she said with a very timid hope in her voice. "And then I could be the soul of decorum, and perhaps they would see that I am not a disreputable jilt, and I might begin to be welcome in polite society again." Still not meeting his gaze, she started walking again. "Would you, Mr. Knightley?"

"Would I arrange a picnic?" he clarified; his brow knit in concern. "Yes, I suppose I could do that, Emma."

"Thank you."

"I am so sorry, dear friend," Knightley said at last. "I know this entire ordeal has been a trial for you from start to finish. It must be hard for you, as such a social and amiable creature, to find yourself in such difficulties."

"It has been," she agreed.

"You are always welcome at Donwell."

"I know. Thank you."

They walked back to the house, and then Knightley went back to Donwell to tell his housekeeper of his unusual intention to act as host.


	9. Emma Offended

The picnic at Box Hill was everything Emma could have hoped for — at first. But the Eltons were there, and were cruel, and Emma lost her temper and took it out on poor Miss Bates. Knightley asked Miss Bates off for a walk, and Frank Churchill responded by asking Emma; Jane Fairfax's glare not withstanding.

But when Knightley and Miss Bates returned, Emma was no where in sight, and Frank and Jane were taking their own stroll around the party.

"Where did Emma go?" Knightley asked.

No one answered for a long moment, and finally Mrs. Elton chimed in to fill the silence. "Oh, don't worry about _her_, Knightley; for I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. She's just behaving true to form." Ignoring her husband's look of displeasure, she plowed on. "She started _crying_ for some unmentionable reason, and finally apologized for her dreadful behavior and started off for home! On _foot_." Mrs. Elton chucked obnoxiously. "Can you imagine? Such a lack of breeding."

Knightley quivered with barely contained anger. "Did none of you ask what had happened?"

When the party made no reply, he said briskly, "Well, I am sorry, but I... feel obliged to see that she made it home safely, as my guest. I hope you will all enjoy the rest of the party. Good day." With that, he unhitched one of the horses, leapt to its back, and cantered back towards Donwell.

He encountered Emma barely half a mile down the slope, with red-rimmed eyes and an obviously dampened pelisse.

"Emma!" He said in dismay, bringing his horse to a rapid halt and jumping off the horse's back.

"Mr. Knightley," she sniffed.

"What—why are you crying? Did someone say something?"

"Please, Mr. Knightley, I just want to go _home_."

Knightley frowned. "You can't walk the entire way."

"Then put me on your horse and let me go," she exclaimed, dashing new tears away from her eyes.

"And when you fall off the _unsaddled_ horse and die, what shall I tell your father?" He queried.

With that, her tears flooded in full, and he felt a little chastened. "Oh, Emma," he said softly.

"It was _Frank_," she said obliquely.

Knightley started. "What was Frank?"

"Why I'm in such a tither," she explained. "He's a horrible, horrible man."

"What did he—"

"I thought he loved me, Mr. Knightley," Emma interrupted. "Was that such a silly notion? That such a man as he might love me? Might not be bothered by my momentary social disgrace?"

"It wasn't a silly notion, Emma, although it was a rather, um, fast notion. His character is not so terribly well-known in Highbury just yet. And your behavior today to Miss Bates... I begin to think he is not such a fine influence, Emma."

"His character is atrocious," she bit out.

Knightley grabbed her arm. "What did he do, Emma?"

"Well, he kissed me." Emma sighed. "And that was actually very nice," she said wistfully. "As you said it could be." Knightley was a little relieved to see the faint smile on her face at the memory. Perhaps Emma would recover after all. But then her face darkened. "And so it was nice, if a little strange—Isabella didn't tell me the half of it, I think—but then I realized that, well, the kisses were beginning to creep _below my chin_, as you put it, and somehow my bodice—" she blushed, "well, somehow it had gotten... mussed... and I interrupted Frank and asked if we weren't getting a little bit ahead of ourselves."

"Good girl," he said approvingly.

She frowned. "But he _laughed_ at me, Mr. Knightley, and said he didn't think I needed him to 'negotiate terms.'"

Knightley sucked in his breath. "And?"

"Well, I had, and still have, no idea exactly what that was about, but I just stared at him, and then he asked me—I do believe he was mocking me, Mr. Knightley!—he asked if I expected a proposal!" She bit her lip. "And I wasn't sure what to say to that, but I said I thought that was the established mode in such cases, and, and he said, the only thing one would propose to a lady of dubious quality, which he had had from Mr. Elton was the definition of me, was the height of her fee!"

There was such a look of intense dismay in Knightley's eyes that Emma began to cry anew. "I thought he loved me, Mr. Knightley, but he told me he was betrothed!"

"Betrothed! To whom?"

Emma shook her head, "I cannot betray _that_ confidence, because it is also that of an innocent party—"

"Jane Fairfax," Knightley guessed.

"Why, yes!" Emma said in surprise. "How did you know?"

"She is besotted," he said flatly, "and, for his part, when he can be close to her without arousing suspicion, he takes every opportunity."

"You're very attentive, Mr. Knightley," Emma sighed. "But, tell me, should I tell Jane about her fiance's inconstancy?"

"He is a shameless flirt," Knightley pointed out. "She can hardly have failed to notice that."

"He was doing more than flirting with me," she protested. "He was kissing me and talking coarsely of—fees!"

Knightley shook his head. "I imagine Jane is happy in her ignorance," he said.

"Well, I should not be happy," Emma said sharply.

He looked hard at her. "Emma, Jane is_ poor_. I'm sure Miss Bates has told her the dangers of rejecting a man just because he is not as committed to fidelity as she might wish." He frowned. "Indeed, if Jane does not marry Frank Churchill, she might end up exactly like Miss Bates. Do you imagine that is what she would wish?"

Emma laughed derisively. "I'm sure Miss Bates was never as accomplished and beautiful as Jane."

"You are unkind, Emma," Knightley chided her. "She was, in fact. She was quite something before her eyesight worsened and she had to don those horrible spectacles. They hide what used to be a fairly lovely, if a little plain, face. And she had the further advantage of being one of the kindest women of my acquaintance."

"Why, Mr. Knightley—how old is Miss Bates? You speak as though she is more than an elderly old friend."

"She had her come-out when I was seventeen," he explained.

"I never imagined." Emma had a look of slight disgust on her face, then shook her head. "But back to Frank and Jane," she continued. "What did he mean by accosting me that way, with no intent of marriage? What on earth has Mr. Elton put about?"

Knightley looked at her in dismay. "You do not know?" He asked. "Surely—surely it is obvious."

"I am in complete ignorance," she said. "You have heard?"

Finally he replied in low tones. "It is my understanding that Elton has made it known—quietly, not in such a way that anyone could call him out—that you broke off the engagement because you feared that the marriage would be annulled if it was... completed."

"Annulled?" She said blankly.

"Well, it was a somewhat logical conclusion for him to jump to, given your reluctance—but he shouldn't have voiced his suspicions, of course."

"Why on earth—how could it have been annulled?"

Knightley sat down on a nearby stump and sighed. "Why am I forever explaining things to you, Emma? I thought Isabella was to tell you all."

"Well, she certainly didn't tell me anything about annulments!" Emma protested.

"It is grounds for an annulment—and most gentlemen would pursue it—if the bride is found on her wedding night to not be a virgin."

Emma looked at him in shock. "That's barbaric!" She exclaimed. "But couldn't a husband use that to chivvy his way out of any marriage? It would be his word against his wife's!"

Knightley squinted. "Well, the wife might produce evidence," he said vaguely.

Emma was having nothing of it. "Evidence?" She pressed.

His tone was annoyed. "Bloody sheets."

"Bloody sheets?" Emma screeched. "Isabella didn't tell me anything about bloody sheets!"

Knightley just stared straight in front of him.

Emma's mind whirled. "That's why you asked me—after the highwayman—that's why you asked me if I bled!"

Knightley still refused to look at her, but nodded slightly.

"Ohhhhh." Emma was silent, disturbed. "How... where?"

"At any rate, Emma," Knightley tried to distract her, "To return to the subject; I think Elton assumed that your resistance to the whole marriage was best explained, especially in his arrogance, by the idea that you were... not a virgin."

"Oh." Emma said nothing else.

Knightley stood up. "Let me take you home, friend," he said.

"On the horse?" Emma asked in surprise.

Knightley nodded. "It is not precisely proper, but I will ride with you, and we will stop before we're in sight of the house, and I will let you down and return to the picnic party."

"All right," Emma said hesitantly.

Knightley climbed on the horse and reached his hand down to her.

She took it, and he deftly pulled her up and situated her on the horse in front of him. "Hold on to the mane, there," he said, reaching his arms on either side of her to hold the traces.

Emma realized she was blushing at the sensation of being so close against his chest—her legs pressing against his even as she sat sideways across the horse and he sat astride—and thought for the second time in the past month how very silly she had been to not have escaped notice of Mr. Knightley as a man before the encounter with the highwayman changed the way she looked at everything. "Mr. Knightley?" She asked tentatively, still distracted by the way his coat brushed against her pelisse as the horse moved.

"Yes?" He answered.

"There is one more thing I don't understand. Why did Frank, even with what Mr. Elton must have told him, why did he say that the only proposal he could make was one of pay and not one of marriage? What did he mean?"

Knightley stiffened. "He meant—I think he thought, by your mutual flirtation, and the information from Elton—I think he must have thought you would welcome his invitation to be his... well, his mistress."

"Mistress?" She prodded.

"Goodness, Isabella really did tell you nothing," he remarked with clear disdain. "Mistress... a woman gentlemen pay, in gifts if not in actual cash, to... be their lover."

"And you think we should not tell Jane of this unseemly quirk in Frank's character?!" Emma exclaimed.

Knightley waited a moment before answering. "As I said; I doubt it would surprise her, I doubt she would change her actions, and I doubt it would make her happier to know that he had propositioned you in particular."

"It's a common deficiency, then?" Emma asked.

"Fairly common, at least among the Ton," he said tightly.

"Do _you_ have a mistress?" She asked.

"Emma!" He reproved. "That's an extremely impertinent question! Ladies do not ask gentlemen about their paramours. Ladies do not talk about mistresses at all, in fact, but Mr. Churchill obviously put that rule to nothing."

Emma looked chastened and hurt, so he answered her anyway. "But no, friend; I am not that sort of man."

"But you're not a virgin, are you, Mr. Knightley?" Emma asked whimsically, emboldened by the fact that, perched as she was on the front of his horse, he could hardly see her face.

"No." His voice was filled with finality and Emma did not press him.

She thought of something else that wanted explanation, though. "You said Miss Bates would have advised Jane not to care about Frank's indiscretions?"

"I imagine," he said flatly.

"But she seems a very moral sort of person to me," Emma protested.

"Moral people make mistakes."

"Do you mean Miss Bates or do you mean men?" She said flippantly.

"Miss Bates fell in love with a young man and then broke it off when she discovered he had a mistress," he explained abruptly. "Even though the young man had every intention of concluding the less honorable relationship to be a fair husband."

Emma was so shocked she actually twisted to look at his face. "Miss Bates was _engaged_?"

Knightley nodded. "I told you, she was a charming young lady," he said. "And after she broke it off, she never fell in love again, and today she has sunk to the level at which you know her. Old and off-the-shelf; the kindest person you'll ever meet, but grown silly and flighty due to lack of good company."

"Who was this young man who broke her heart, then?" Emma asked, amazement still on her face.

"Me."


	10. Emma Humbled

Emma was beside herself in shock. "_You_, Mr. Knightley? I cannot comprehend it. You have finished telling me that you are not 'that sort of man,' and yet now you tell me—it is beyond understanding. And then there is the none too small matter of my complete inability to picture you with _Miss Bates_, of all people!" Shaking her head, she continued. "Let us walk the rest of the way, sir; I begin to feel quite uncomfortable next to you on the horse!"

Knightley obligingly helped her descent before following her to the ground, gathering his thoughts.

"Are you _still_ in love with her?" Emma demanded.

"I don't believe I was ever in love with her, Emma," he said quietly. "Our mothers were good friends, the differences in their circumstances notwithstanding. We both possessed reprehensible fathers, and as it grew clear to everyone that her father was going to entirely spoil their family fortune and leave his daughter with no dowry or even sensible funds for living as a gentlewoman, my mother pleaded with me to rescue the situation by marrying the poor girl." He frowned. "I was a selfish, reckless fellow—this was around the time you were born—but her plight touched my heart and I agreed to the marriage."

"And yet it did not happen," Emma pressed.

"No. I had been living in London at the time; flush with money, for my father was never a poor manager, for all his faults, making the rounds at balls and, well, gathering a distinct reputation for myself."

"I can't imagine you, Mr. Knightley," Emma said in dismay.

He turned and looked at her intently. "I would think you could, after the events—right before you broke it off with Mr. Elton."

Emma was too astounded and perplexed to reply to _that_, and, not wanting to consider the situation too closely, much less discuss it with him, she drew his attention back to Miss Bates. "But what happened with Miss Bates?"

"We argued," he said simply. "She had heard—correctly—of my exploits in London, and that there was one lady whose... attentions... I was particularly fond of, and... she demanded that I give her up." He bit his lip. "Mrs. Bates, her mother, was as moralizing and conservative as she is now—I'll never understand how Mr. Bates captured her to begin with—and her idea of fidelity in marriage was a great deal more stern that it is among the general Ton."

"Do you mean to say that _most_ men have mistresses?" Emma asked in disbelief.

"No, of course not!" Knightley responded. "But it's understood as a simple vice, like playing cards or being overfond of racing, not a thing to upset an entire marriage over. It's a fault most women overlook." He took a deep breath. "More to the point, it's a fault that women like Katherine Bates or Jane Fairfax cannot afford to break an engagement over. She, of course, never got another proposal, and so she has become the silly shell of her former self that you know and dismiss so casually."

"That's a very tragic story," Emma said, at a loss for words.

"It was even sadder than you know," Knightley continued, "for it soon became apparent to me that Miss Bates had really tied up her heart in the whole affair, and was quite wrecked when I refused to give up my London lady." He looked at her again. "And in the years since, I've grown to see that not only was I wrong because of my thoughtless and self-centered behavior, but the entire mode of my life then was in serious error."

"I don't remember you being such," Emma said quietly.

"You were a toddler," he shook his head. "But it was true. My father was an enormously selfish man, and such a trial to my mother! I should have learned the error of his behavior from seeing what it did to her, but, a boy likes to please his father." His voice was filled with sadness and regret. "At least I tried to teach John differently, when the time came. Our father died when I was a teenager, as you know, and John was but twelve, with his ideas about women and marriage not quite entirely formed yet. Our mother had a larger influence on him, and I believe—I hope—he is true to your sister."

"What about Miss Bates, though?" Emma asked. "How do you go about as friends, as you do?"

"We both made mistakes, I believe," he said carefully, "And I think that now, we can both look back and blame ourselves as well as each other for the outcome. So we seem to have no harsh feelings between us. And as for affection—oh, hers was well and truly lost when she found out about my exploits in London, and I never regarded her more keenly than a friend, at any rate." He looked sternly at Emma. "Katherine Bates has always been a very good, kind, moral lady. She is in hideous circumstances because of the careless behavior of her reprobate father who squandered every penny he ever came across, but she bears her circumstances well and is a paragon of virtue. She is my friend, and has been nothing but exceptionally kind to you since you were small. The way you treated her today—!" He said no more.

"I am sorry, Mr. Knightley. She is just so—hard to bear! I know she is dreadfully good," Emma amended.

"She has nothing. You have everything. She should excite your compassion, not your censure!"

Emma bit her lip. "I am truly sorry, Mr. Knightley, and I will tell her so as well."

"Well, take care that you don't embarrass her," he said. "Here we are back at the house. I will ride back to the picnic party, and you go along home." He climbed back up on the horse.

"Wait, Mr. Knightley," Emma said. "There's one more thing I must know—"

"Yes?" Knightley asked, a trifle impatient.

"Frank Churchill assumed—everyone ostracizes me—and Frank assumed I was a—a—well, that I would welcome his advances without his ring."

Knightley just nodded, urging her to continue.

"Will this all blow over, do you think?" she said obliquely.

Knightley looked at her carefully. "I'm not sure," he said at last. "I don't think Elton meant to be malicious, but he has certainly made your situation much worse." He paused. "And, while at first it seemed Mr. Churchill would be your key back to good society... what happened today looks very bad, even if he shows more discretion and care than he seems wont to do. Everyone witnessed your flirtation, and now, with its abrupt ending..." he trailed off. "One's reputation can only be restored so many times, Emma. Your life has been a series of misfortunes these past few months."

She nodded, tears swelling in her eyes again. "But am I still welcome at Donwell, Mr. Knightley, or should you be ashamed to call me friend?"

"I should never be ashamed of you, Emma," he replied, then turned his horse to ride back to Box Hill.


	11. Emma Begs

_A/N: Ah, I agonize over the reviews. I am very sorry if you don't like it. :( I can feel myself making lots of mistakes. Once it gets all finished, maybe I can sit down and revise it a good bit and repost. In the meantime, reviews are forever appreciated. :)_

A few mornings later when Knightley stepped into his library, he was astounded to find his brother already waiting there for him, unannounced.

"I'm sorry!" He said in confusion. "No one told me you were here. All the way from London?"

John snorted. "Yes. Your staff is slipping, George; they'll let anyone in."

Knightley chucked. "Why have you come at such an hour, brother? Isabella and the children—"

"Are fine," John assured him. "I'm here because Isabella received the most dreadful note from Emma last night, asking if she might come and live with us! Imagine!"

Knightley sighed and sat down at his desk. "She has had a hard time of it, John."

"Oh, I can imagine—her own silly behavior! Really she has been so foolish!" John's disapproval irked his brother.

"Her situation is pitiable," he reminded him.

"Well!" John dismissed. "At any rate, she must be forgetting that Elton came to London immediately, and this Frank Churchill fellow is well known about town as well—and _he'll_ do no favors to any lady's reputation. Indeed, George, I'm astounded you've let her behave in such a way. Churchill!"

Knightley clenched his jaw in annoyance at his brother's mode of speech. "She is not _my_ sister, John," he reproved. "I am hardly in a position to _let_ her do anything."

"Well, she is practically your sister," John rejoined. "And you know Mr. Woodhouse would never advise her."

"You might have!" Knightley said, his anger slipping through.

"Ah, I had not forseen it to be such a troublesome matter. Can't imagine why she broke it off with Elton!"

Knightley tried to think of a response to that, but before he did, his brother continued.

"So we have settled it. She cannot _possibly_ go to Town with the rumors flying about of a _Miss Woodhouse of Highbury_, and she is clearly miserable here, so, we will have to find her a house in the country somewhere."

Knightley stood up so fast that his chair tipped over backwards. "Send her to the country! With the nature of the rumors that have been flying about, you know what conclusions the old tabbies will draw from _that_!"

"She's ruined every chance we've tried to give her!" John said angrily. "I can't bring her disreputableness into my house and onto my family! And the girl sounds almost—lost for the world," he finished. "She might be a danger to herself, George, have you thought of that? She utterly _despondent_. Have you talked to her?"

"Not since—the incident at the picnic, no," Knightley admitted.

"Well!" John exclaimed. "Oh, I know, we could send her to Aunt Agatha!"

"In New York!" Knightley said with dismay.

"It might be a perfect solution for the girl," John said. "And she is _my_ sister, after all; my duty." He nodded. "Yes, I think New York would do nicely. No one would have heard of her, and even if they did—Americans are so... so light," he said disdainfully. "They would be so over the moon at her money and beauty... yes, it would go well for her, and she might even find a husband." He shook his head. "No chance of that here, anymore. Yes, it's a perfect solution, and I'll go and tell her." He held out his hand. "Thank you, George, I suppose I only needed a sounding board."

Knightley stared open-mouthed at his brother as he rushed out the door.

* * *

In the end, it was Mrs. Weston who proposed the final solution. She had gone to Highbury upon the receipt of an anxious note from Mr. Woodhouse, and as they all sat around discussing Emma's situation and her accompanying alarmingly poor state of mind, Mrs. Weston said, in as unremarkable of a tone as she could manage:

"If _only_ we knew a confirmed bachelor who could rescue Emma by giving her a second, perhaps more amiable, proposal of marriage."

"Oh, yes," Isabella broke in. "That really would be just the thing!"

"It need not be a love match," Mrs. Weston elaborated. "It could perhaps even be a man who has shown no inclination to marry—he could do it simply for the sake of Emma's reputation."

"If only!" Isabella exclaimed. "But what bachelors do we know who might be worked upon? Papa, what kind of settlement could you provide—"

"I've got it!" John exclaimed.

Mr. George Knightley looked at him in alarm. "Who are you going to marry her off to, John?" He asked. "She won't take kindly to this plan, you know."

"You!" came the astonishing reply.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Weston cooed. "That would be just perfect! Emma cannot object!"

Knightley's face was very grave. "I had not intended—that is, Emma does not wish to marry," he stuttered out.

"Well, George, no one better than you," his brother assured him. "We all know the regard you have for each other—marriages need not be founded on romantic love, you know."

Knightley still looked grim, but consented for them to fetch Emma from her refuge in the garden.

"We have a solution to all your problems," Isabella began.

"Pardon?" Emma asked in surprise.

Mrs. Weston came over and took her arm. "You see, dearest Emma, it occurred to us that if you were respectably married, no one could tattle on or ostracism you as they have—"

"And then it was just a matter of finding the perfect gentleman!" Isabella continued.

Emma was losing her color. "So this is what it comes to—pack me off to New York in disgrace, or consent to be married to someone I hardly know!"

"Not someone you hardly know, dear," Mrs. Weston reassured her.

"Well, who then?" Emma asked.

"Now, Emma," Mrs. Weston said airily. "Who do we both know, who is a gentleman, and single, and eligible, and might be persuaded to give over the rest of his life to helping you out of this regrettable situation?"

"I'm sure I can't imagine," Emma said listlessly.

"Mr. Knightley!" Isabella exclaimed, barely constraining her excitement. "It's the perfect solution!"

Emma jerked her head up to stare at Knightley. "You!"

Knightley waited a moment for her to elucidate, and when she said nothing else, he quirked his brow and merely said, "It would allow you to remain in Highbury, dear little friend."

Emma swallowed.

The silence stretched on as all their friends watched in suspense, looking from one to the other to see who would finally speak, who would finally decide.

Emma's face was far from happy—Knightley thought he could detect a faint glimmer of tears lurking in the depths of her eyes, and there was a little tinge of fear there as well.

"We will always be friends, Emma," he murmured uncertainly.

She nodded, still frowning a little. "All right, Mr. Knightley. I see no other way out. I have no wish to go to America, and no wish to bring further shame and degradation on my family, either. It's all a very unfortunate business, but—such it is, under the hand of Providence." She stood a little straighter. "I will marry you, Mr. Knightley. And I will try not to make you sorry for the sacrifice you are making on our behalf."

Knightley nodded grimly. "I must be off," he said. "There's something I must do."

And then he was gone, leaving Emma encircled by her nearest family and remaining friend, who were all quickly making plans for the wedding—which, it was agreed, must necessarily be held as quickly as possible—and listening absentmindedly to the plans spun by her sister and old governess.

Emma Woodhouse was getting married at last!

* * *

It wasn't until the week after that—a week before the set wedding date—that Emma began to wonder exactly what sort of marriage Mr. Knightley had been proposing. Her thoughts were spurred by a careless remark of Isabella's, that _Dear George had come to John and expressed his concern for our feelings that he, who had never intended to marry, was now marrying, and thereby perhaps unseating John as the heir to Donwell_. Isabella misread Emma's look of dismay and quickly assured her that the younger Knightley family had done quite well with John's business, and would do quite fine without the family house and inheritance. Emma nodded and expressed her token delight with their situation, but then departed for Donwell at the earliest opportunity.

She was quickly shown in to the library, where Knightley was pouring over his ledgers.

"Ah, Emma!" He exclaimed. "I am glad you have come. I brought something for you, from London." He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a little ribbon-bound box, holding it out to her.

Emma opened the box to find a very pretty, expensive-looking emerald ring. "Mr. Knightley!" She said in astonishment. "I know ours is not a love match—you need not shower me with gifts!"

"It was my mother's," he said. "Or, rather, the stone was. I had it reset for you."

"Thank you," she said hesitatingly, her mind whirling in confusion.

"My mother had some nice jewels," he added. "They will all belong to you, as mistress of Donwell."

"Oh." Emma's voice was unpleasantly empty.

"What's wrong?" He asked. "Do you not like the ring?"

"Oh, no, it's perfect," Emma assured him. "If anyone understands my tastes, it would be you."

"Emma, friend," he entreated her, "then you must tell me what is bothering you."

She sat down on the sofa and took a deep breath. "Isabella told me about a conversation you had—you _initiated_—with John."

"You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid," he gently teased.

"About—about _heirs_," she bit out.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, realizing which conversation she referred to. "Well—John has been my heir ever since our father died, and, ever since the business with Miss Bates, I've never even faintly courted a lady, and I thought that at my age, John and Isabella had probably assumed I would never marry—that they may have begun to depend upon the idea of inheriting Donwell."

"Well, I can see that," Emma said. "But, well, Mr. Knightley—"

"What is it, friend?" he said kindly.

"It's just that I didn't think our marriage would displace them," she said carefully.

Knightley frowned at her. "Emma, what exactly do you mean?"

"You know I had no desire to marry, and after... well, it's just that you know my particular circumstances..." she trailed off uncertainly.

"Indeed I do," he replied. "But, Emma—you begged Mr. Elton for _patience_. I assure you that you will have that from me!"

"Mr. Knightley..." Emma looked at him in consternation. "Are you telling me that you intend for this marriage to be—" she blushed, "well, to be..."

Knightley's eyes were narrowed. "Are _you_ telling _me_ that you intended to have a full marriage with _Elton_ for the sake of your reputation, but you expect me to conform to a—a _mockery_ of a marriage?"

"I didn't know you were so selfish!" Emma exclaimed. "I thought—I thought that it was necessary for me to go along with Mr. Elton's barbarities, if I could bear them, but, Mr. Knightley, I thought you were my friend!"

"And yet it is not by being your friend, Emma, that we will save your reputation," he said sternly. "I won't demean the value of marriage—the institution rather than our particular incarnation—I won't endeavor to save your reputation by engaging in a lie."

"It is not a lie to be kind!" She protested.

"I will be kind!"

Emma took a step back. "So, I see how it is, Mr. Knightley," she said furiously. "It is true that all men are alike. I should have known when you took that kiss in so ungentlemanly a fashion, so cruelly—you are just like Mr. Elton!"

"I am not like Mr. Elton!" He thundered.

"You are going to force me in your bed just as he was!" She pinked at her crudity.

Knightley, too, was unsettled by her choice of words. "Emma," he said quietly. "It isn't like that at all. I could go on forever as your friend—" Although even as he said it, he began to wonder if it was true, if he was as indifferent as he had always believed himself to be. "But when we say our vows, we will promise in the sight of all to be 'faithful in bed and at board'—I will not lie." He frowned. "Miss Bates taught me that. I was wrong to be willing then to make vows I did not intend to keep, and I will not do it next week, even for the sake of your reputation. I will have a true marriage, or no marriage."

"Surely, Mr. Knightley," she begged, "friendship is the true heart of marriage!"

"Perhaps," he allowed, "but it is not the defining characteristic. Friendships exist everywhere without the sanctity of marriage thurst upon them."

"You won't budge?" She said quietly.

"I would not be myself if I did, Emma," Knightley said, not without regret. "I have strong beliefs about marriage. I wish I could compromise them for you—but... the law of God is higher than the law of Emma," he finished. "I cannot compromise my conscience."

Emma said nothing, but tears ran down her cheeks. He sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. "Emma, dearest old friend," he implored her. "You must know you have nothing to fear from me—" he broke off. "But even still, if you have changed your mind, I will let it be known that I broke off the engagement—I will contrive some way for the blame for this not to fall on you and further damage your reputation."

"But I will still be sent away," she despaired.

"It is not a worse situation than you had a week and a half ago," he vowed. "I will do everything I can to ensure that."

She sighed.

"But, friend," he entreated, "you can still marry me. Stay in Highbury, surrounded by your friends and your father. And me." He ran his hand along her cheek. "Marry me, Emma."


	12. Emma Pensive

_A/N: This one is another shortie, but next up is the wedding, and I wanted to get this part over with and leave the wedding to its own chapter..._

Emma shied away from his hand. "What do you mean, precisely, Mr. Knightley, that I will have _patience_ from you?"

Knightley sighed. "Force goes against every fiber of my being, Emma, and I don't think I could even if I did wish to." He met her gaze very carefully. "But a false marriage also goes against all I believe. And so you must promise me—because it really is dependent on you—you must promise me that you are agreeing to a real—a _consummated_ marriage." He looked at her encouragingly. "I know there will be much to work through, and I know that you are not in love with me, and I promise to bear with you, to walk alongside you. But," he took a deep breath, "you must try, and not give up. Marriage, I believe, is hard work for any couple; this will just be our own hardship in it."

Emma was silent as she thought. "I cannot imagine ever _enjoying_... that, Mr. Knightley."

He nodded. "I'm just asking you to try, and not give up."

Emma stood up and walked over to the window, looking out on the grounds of Donwell. "Mr. Knightley?"

"You really should begin to call me George," came the patient reply.

"Yes, well. I am not ready for that, I think!" She exclaimed. "At any rate. After the—the highwayman—you told me that I should tell my husband what happened... now that is to be you; I should tell you?" Emma's expression was tinged with horror. "But Mr. Knightley, oh, I don't know if I can recount the events to _you_ of all people!"

"Shhh, Emma, don't distress yourself," he soothed. "Not now, at least. Our relationship is so very far removed from what I had hoped for in a marriage for you—I thought you would be lively and in love, and... but we do what we must." His voice grew softer still. "I know you trust me as a friend, but you have to trust me... physically... as well. In the meantime, though, Emma, you should not be ashamed of anything before me."

"What if I'm not, in fact, what you say... what if I'm not really untouched? I mean quite obviously I am _not_ untouched, but what if—oh, Mr. Knightley; your questions of me that day were so kind and so vague! I loved the vagueness but now I hate it! I am so ignorant!"

"Emma, I would be a brute if I held anything that happened that day against you," he assured her.

"I have... I have _scars_, Mr. Knightley," she whispered. "I was terrified that Mr. Elton would see them and be repulsed, or, worse, assume that—"

"But I know the truth of it," he broke in. "It will be all right, Emma."

"It is not so much that I dislike _you_, you know," she babbled. "I had never thought to marry at all... and now... all there is is fear."

"I thought you rather enjoyed your moment with Frank Churchill," he pointed out, realizing to his chagrin that the question was a little colored by a newfound sense of jealousy.

"Well, yes," Emma hesitated, "but—I knew that had... limits."

"Limits?" Knightley asked.

"It was just a fun little flirtation, as you said... he showed an interest in me, and I was flattered."

"But you thought he was going to offer marriage," Knightley said in confusion.

"Everyone hated me!" She exclaimed. "And here was this handsome man professing adoration of me in front of everyone! It was a delightful feeling, Mr. Knightley. I was quite lost to it."

Knightley felt a chill run down his spine as he realized how badly he and Emma's other friends had blundered. "And the rest of us didn't make you feel that way," he said repentantly. "For all that we felt sorry for you and pitied you, we didn't act, in front of the world, like you had nothing to be ashamed of."

She nodded.

"Oh, Emma, I am so sorry," he said. "I'm glad—in an absurd way—I'm glad Churchill was so forthright with his immoral intentions for you. I imagine, as your only source of validation, that if he had been less openly ill-mannered... well, I imagine it would have been easy for him to make you his mark. We should have seen," his face was solemn, "and we should have been more gratuitously kind to you ourselves, as he was, even at risk to our own reputations. We ostracized you in our own way, and I am sorry."

"Mr. Knightley, don't castigate yourself so," Emma urged him. "It _was_ all my fault for jumping out of the carriage with Mr. Elton. I should have controlled my emotions. You've been telling me so since I was a girl."

"His proposal was the poorest timing, Emma. And John never should have put you in that carriage—! There are reasons for conventions."

"Speaking of which, I suppose I've been in your library unchaperoned quite long enough!" Emma exclaimed.

"Indeed," Knightley affirmed. "You should go. Before you do, however—" his breath caught at his audacity, but watching her there in the sunlight streaming in from the window, making a golden halo around her hair, he grew bold, "Emma, may I kiss you before you go?"

She froze. "You kissed me here once before," she reminded him.

"Out of anger, and exasperation," he explained. "And—I must be honest—I am beginning to see you as a bit more than a mere friend, Emma, and, although I didn't realize it myself at the time... well, suffice it to say, I promise this would be a very different, very small, very chaste kiss."

Emma licked her lips, an expression of dismay still on her face. "I don't want to, Mr. Knightley," she said at last.

"You promised me you would try," he reminded her.

"A very tiny kiss?"

"Very tiny," he agreed, stepping toward her.

Every muscle in her body grew rigid and chill, her expression carefully clear. She shut her eyes. Knightley stopped, inches away from her face, and looked down at her. He frowned at her icy demeanor, but put his fingers under her chin nonetheless, gently turning it up towards his, and very softly kissed her lips. Then he let go, and quickly stepped away.

"Was that so horrible?" He asked quietly.

Emma opened her eyes, willing the tears not to fall. "I'm sorry, Mr. Knightley," she told him. "I'm going to make a horrible wife."

"You could never be that, dearest Emma," Knightley said. "But please make an effort to call me George."

Then he bowed slightly and left her alone in the library.


	13. Emma Confronts

_A/N: Well, this is a longer update! I'm feeling a little unsure the direction I want to take this after this chapter (I mean, I know the storyline, but I haven't decided how I want to write it) — it is obviously drawing quickly to a close. So it may be a while again before another update._

Emma slept restlessly that night, but woke up with a renewed sense of herself and a powerful motivation to take Mr. Knightley to task. She dashed off to Donwell immediately after breakfast and stormed into the library yet again. Knightley was, predictably, poring over his ledgers as usual, and looked up in surprise when she burst through the door.

"Emma!" He exclaimed.

"Mr. Knightley, I have spent all night thinking on it, and I _cannot_ believe that you would really be so cruel."

He stood up. "What? What have I done? And—call me George?"

"You do _not_ want me," she went on, "you really don't. All you men are the same, apparently; if my oldest and truest friend cannot leave me to what remains of my... virtue, then there is no hope for your entire rotten gender!"

Knightley frowned in consternation. "Emma, please sit, and let us talk about this."

"I'm going to call the marriage off," she told him, "even if I have to go to America." She sat on the sofa with a loud huff. "Horrid place. Everything is horrid."

Knightley came and sat next to her, close but not touching. "Emma," he entreated, "I do wish you wouldn't call it off. I should miss you if you went to America."

"I won't call it off if you tell me you'll leave me alone!" She said defiantly. "I _thought_ you would be a better choice than Mr. Elton, that you would not make me—" she stopped, overtaken by awkwardness.

"Emma," Knightley repeated patiently. "I told you I would not force you. Elton _would_."

"But you did tell me that I had to agree to—" Emma stuttered, "to consummate... it." Knightley felt a stab of regret burst through him at her obvious discomfort, but waited for her to finish. "And, that's a kind of forcing, just like Mr. Elton would—maybe even worse, because you want me to _agree_ and he probably wouldn't have cared."

Knightley swallowed. "Emma, I don't want you to _agree_; I want you to... to _enjoy_ it."

"I cannot possibly ever _enjoy_ that particular degradation, Mr. Knightley." Emma answered. "And I cannot promise you otherwise."

"That wasn't—I'm sorry for being so obtuse yesterday, dear friend—I'm not asking you to promise me anything, except that you understand that this... that it goes along with marriage; that the two are made to go together hand-in-hand. I was just trying to make it clear to you that despite our long-standing friendship, that I don't believe in the idea of a celibate marriage and that would not be my goal or my intention." Emma was looking steadfastly at her hands folded in her lap, so Knightley reached over and turned her chin towards him, looking solemnly at her eyes. "Emma, I would _never_ force you. I would die of old age first. And, after so many years of regarding you merely as my little friend, my brother's sister-in-law; my closest neighbor—I think you may trust in my forbearance." He very, very gently ran his finger along her jawline, and felt her tremble, although she didn't break his gaze. "But I will not strive for celibacy, either, or encourage you in it. In fact," he added with a twinkle, "I think I cannot promise not to try to seduce you, little friend." He smiled at her. "That was what I meant to say yesterday, Emma; merely that if you were trying for a loveless marriage, I would not cooperate."

Emma was all confusion. "I cannot see you as a—a rake, sir," she said. "Seduction doesn't seem to be quite your line."

Knightley's eyes seemed much darker than she remembered. "You have never seen me with a wife," he replied. Emma had taken on a rather ghastly pale, and Knightley reached over and lightly patted her knee. "It's all right, Emma," he tried to assure her. "I promise—"

But Emma stood up, away from his reach. "It is _not_ all right, Mr. Knightley," she said angrily. "You told me once that men liked to know that their wives were _untouched_, and—I am not."

"Emma, we've already—I would never hold any of that against you—"

"No, you told me, that if I had not bled, that I was still..." Emma swallowed, "still a virgin."

Knightley nodded, confused.

"And so _you_ are under the impression that I am, in fact, a virgin."

Knightley nodded again.

"But Isabella told me—" Emma paused to take a deep breath and gather some bravery, "Isabella told me that when a man—we were talking of Mr. Elton, you understand—that on our wedding night, that he would... well, touch—inside—_be_ inside—" she flushed.

"And Mr. Knightley, I did not bleed, I am sure of it, but—"

"But what?" Knightley asked her gently.

"But you were wrong!" She exclaimed. "I am _not_ a virgin, by what Isabella told me—" her voice dropped to a whisper. "So you see, Mr. Knightley, I do not meet your requirements for a wife any more than I would have met Mr. Elton's."_  
_

"Emma..." Knightley stood up and grabbed her hands. "You can't think I would... I have told you more than once, friend, that none of that day matters to me!"

She batted his hands away and then, to his astonishment, started unbuttoning her pelisse and loosening the laces on her bodice.

"What? What are you doing, Emma?" he asked, trying to stop her furiously-working fingers, but she batted his hands away.

"Let me show you, Mr. Knightley," Emma said, working to open the front of her dress.

He stared in mute horror at her while she worked the neckline of her dress lower and lower.

"See, Mr. Knightley?" Emma demanded. "Do you _see_ what he did to my-my breasts? Do you _see_ what I am, what you would marry? What you would—would take to _bed_?"

He did see; he saw ugly half-moon shaped scars beginning to heal. His gut clenched and he wished the man had not been hung so he could run him through himself. "Emma—" but she interrupted him.

"And that's not all, Mr. Knightley," she continued. "I am not untouched. I am not a virgin. He—he _touched_ me," she fumed, "he was—" she continued so quietly Knightley strained to hear her, "in-inside. He stopped just to unfasten his trousers, and then his friend persuaded him away, but—but he had already... so-so-so you see, you cannot marry me!"

At just that moment, John Knightley walked in the door, and quickly took in the scene, of Emma's undone bodice and spilling decolletage, his brother standing right next to her with a passionate expression on his face, and jumped to the entirely wrong conclusion. "George!" he said angrily. "I thought you, of all people, would have the decency to wait until the vows had been exchanged!"

Emma wailed in dismay and embarrassment and ran out of the room crying.

"John, you're a—a fool!" George Knightley replied, before dashing out after his fiancee.

* * *

He caught up to her in the garden, but she would not stop running. He overtook her and caught her in his arms and didn't let her go. She kicked and struggled and cried. "Let me go!" She twisted and kicked against his shins until they both tumbled to the ground. She would not stop fighting and trying to escape until, in desperation, he rolled over on her and pinned her arms to the grass. Emma abruptly went still as a statue and Knightley looked down at her in dismay.

"Emma," he said, making his voice as calm as he could, "if you continue running through the countryside in this state, you won't even be fit company for New York!"

He rolled off. "I won't hurt you. I'm not—I'm not _him_."

Still she didn't move. "Please talk to me, Emma," he begged her. "Come, let us sit on that bench, and speak frankly to one another. And then if you stilll want to run away in tears, I will let you, regardless of the damage it will do you."

Emma nodded finally and allowed him to lead her to the bench, which overlooked a quiet pond in one of the farthest reaches of the Donwell estate. He guided her to sit down, then knelt in front of her, hands resting gently on her knees in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. He swallowed. "Must I tell you again, Emma, that nothing that happened that day was your fault, and that only a brute would hold any of it against you?"

She nodded. "But, Mr. Knightley, you thought I was still a virgin, at least," she sniffed.

"It doesn't matter," he assured her. "I love you, darling Emma. You are my dearest friend." A troubled look crossed his face. "And I am so very, very sorry for troubling you so much yesterday—I am sorry you thought I could ever—I would never, ever, in a million years, wish to do anything that would bring you so much discomfort, whether the law gave me the authority to or not. Can you forgive me for leading you to the wrong conclusion?"

Emma nodded again.

"That's settled, then," he said with obvious relief. "And you will not run away to New York?"

"No. I will marry you," she agreed. "But—are you sure you won't change your mind, ever, and decide to hold it against me that I am not this mystical creature that men seek; that I am... defiled?"

"Defiled?" Knightley's brows shot up. "Emma, darling, it was not your fault! The blackguard—" he paused, "Emma, rape has no affect on genuine virtue," he said softly.

She chewed on her lower lip and attempted a smile, although the only thing that Knightley could see was a slight softening of her eyes. "What if—what if I am with child?"

Knightley frowned at her. "It's been many weeks, Emma," he said, "Haven't you—haven't you had your... your courses?" he asked with alarm.

"Oh, yes," Emma replied.

"Don't you know that... good grief, does Isabella tell you nothing at all?" he shook his head. "When a woman becomes with child, those, um, monthly disturbances stop. If you were with child, you would not have had your courses," he finished bluntly.

"Oh, that's a relief," Emma exclaimed. "I have been worried ever since Isabella explained to me about marriage and I realized that you had been mistaken—"

"I am not sure—" Knightley began, then started again. "Emma, were you petrified of Elton only because you thought you were not a virgin? I mean, if you thought you still were, would you rather... would you rather marry someone else?"

Emma looked at him blankly. "I have just explained to you that I am not a virgin," she protested, her voice overflowing with tension. "I fail to understand the aim of your question."

Knightley smiled a little sadly. "I think it is possible that Isabella mangled things again." He broke her gaze. "Emma, if you'd rather not discuss this, all you have to do is tell me—but just now, inside the house, you said... well, you said that '_then_ he began to unfasten his trousers'."

She nodded tersely, still not sure where the conversation was going.

Knightley took a deep breath. "But he never did?"

She shook her head.

"Then you are still a virgin, dear friend," he said heavily, "and free to marry whomever you will without fear of reproach or annulment. You don't—you don't have to marry your old neighbor, if you have a beau waiting in the wings."

"You know I don't!" Emma said in dismay. "But you must be mistaken, Mr. Knightley. I don't see what his trousers have to do with it; Isabella was grotesquely clear."

Knightley grit his teeth. "That would be an abnormality," he muttered; "your sister is generally anything but clear. What did she tell you?"

"Mr. Knightley, this is a very improper conversation," Emma retorted. "You're all the time chiding me for asking you impertinent questions, and now you are asking me to recount the single most impertinent set of information I've ever acquired! Besides, I'm sure you're well aware of the particulars!"

"Emma!" Knightley protested. "Let me assure you, I am asking you for a very good reason. If you are a virgin, then you may marry freely." He spoke very low. "I don't want you to be shackled to me for false reasons, because Isabella misled you—"

"Oh, goodness, Mr. Knightley," she sighed. "I cannot marry anyone else, virgin or not; my reputation is in tatters." She cleared her throat. "However, I am not the hesitant prude that you have been in our conversations, and so I _will_ tell you." Emma pursed her lips. "Isabella told me," she began confidently, then wavered. "She told me, that Mr. Elton would t-touch me, would unfasten my nightclothes and t-t-touch my... my chest... and, and, between—here, you know," she gestured vaguely at her midsection, "that he would touch and be... inside... and that it would hurt very badly but just the first and, she said like you did, that there would be blood, but that I was not to be afraid," Emma finished in a rush.

"And that is all the more detail that she gave you?" Knightley asked with a sigh.

Emma nodded. "What more was there to say? It certainly seemed to fit my experience with the highwayman well enough."

"Emma," Knightley said, "I am very sorry to ask it, but—the highwayman—he touched you... _there_," he said with a similarly vague wave of his hand, "with...just his hand?"

"What on earth else should he 'touch' me with?" Emma exclaimed. "People generally touch with their hands, unless I'm much mistaken!" Her voice was nervous.

He cleared his throat. "Surely you've seen animals mating?" Knightley's voice was soft and gentle.

"Well, of course," she replied.

"And they don't, um, touch with their paws," he continued quietly.

"Well, no, but, people don't have that—" she broke off and stared in such horror and astonishment at _his_ midsection that he reddened. "People _do_ have?" Emma said in astonishment.

"Men do have," Knightley said stiffly.

"Oh!" Emma exclaimed and then realized that she was staring and looked away with a blush.

Knightley settled himself on the bench next to her. "So..." he began, but she interrupted.

"Mr. Knightley, if—then why—what was he doing with his hand? As you say, animals don't touch with their paws." Knightley started to shake his head and defer, but Emma interrupted him again. "Mr. Knightley, don't even tell me that it's an improper question. I think we are far beyond the bounds of that and, besides, if I am to be your wife, you are forcing me to consider the idea of not merely discussing inappropriate things with you, but to actually do inappropriate things—"

"Emma!" He broke in. "Fine. Are you telling me, once and for all, that you are not going to call this marriage off?"

She frowned. "I don't see, virgin or not, that I really have any more choice than I did," she said. "My reputation is ruined, at any rate," she admitted, "And—you are my very dear friend, Mr. Knightley, and—I know you are very kind."

He smiled at her encouragingly. "I am glad to hear you still think that."

"Of course," Emma assured him. "But now, you must tell me, because I am still very confused—why did he—with his hand?"

A dark look came over Knightley's face. "Well, he obviously had the intention of taking the thing to its full denouement—before his companion urged his better judgment."

Emma nodded but waited expectantly.

"He couldn't simply... it would be difficult... without—" He stopped. "Oh, Emma, I will explain better after we are wed, I promise."

Emma frowned. "That is not very forthright of you, Mr.-George," she sighed.

"I like to hear you call me by my name," Knightley said eagerly.

"All right, then; speak bluntly to me about one thing now," Emma's voice was unyielding. "You and Isabella both mentioned blood, but, I fail to understand... where would the blood come from? And how does it matter whether it was his hand or—"

Knightley sighed. "And then, if I answer this, you will promise me no more bluntness until it's in its proper frame, of marriage?"

"I think you're being a dreadful stick-in-the-mud about it," Emma scoffed.

"It is not easy to talk about, Emma!" He protested. "It is not proper. Unmarried ladies are not supposed to have such knowledge."

"Why?"

"I think the assumption is that if young ladies knew more, they would be tempted to act on that knowledge," he explained.

Emma frowned. "But that's not fair!"

"No, it isn't," Knightley agreed.

"At any rate, though, Mr.- George," Emma contented, "You yourself said that Isabella should have been clearer. So, pretend yourself to be my better sister," she said, "And tell me what I should know before I am married. That is fair, even under your scruples."

"I am not your sister," Knightley said archly, "which is a significant difference."

"But you would not have me languish in ignorance, either," Emma plied.

"No," he agreed. "All right. I will tell you. The blood comes from the maidenhead—which is a small bit of skin deep inside..." he stuttered a little and his cheeks grew rosy. "Inside you," he finished. "When you... when you come together with a man for the first time, it breaks and is gone. That is what Isabella meant by it hurting—goodness, what I meant that day when I asked you if it had hurt—and it bleeds."

"Bloody sheets," Emma added with new understanding.

Knightley nodded. "Yes. And—your other question—his hand... his fingers... probably didn't break the barrier, almost certainly not if there was no blood. It would take purpose for him to have broken it with just his fingers, and he had no reason for that."

"But why would he touch me with his fingers at all?" Emma asked. "And why is it so inevitable that the barrier be broken in—in marital intimacy—if he could do what he did without breaking it?"

Knightley choked. "It is quite a different thing—" he broke off. "And for your first question, that is completely beyond the bounds of what we had agreed, Emma; ask me again on our wedding night, if you must."

Emma sighed. "All right, Mr. Knightley, you win."

He smiled at her, a genuine warm smile that reached into her and warmed her very blood. "I do indeed win, Miss Woodhouse. Now, let us go back to Donwell—back to John!—before he is convinced I've indeed abandoned all my sense and decided to ravish you in the wood!"

With an uncertain look on her face, Emma took the hand he offered, and the two stood.

"I don't think—" Emma tugged at the laces on her dress. "I cannot—" she flushed, realizing for the first time the expanse of skin she'd been displaying for their entire awkward conversation.

"I am no ladies' maid," Knightley said reproachfully, "but I will try. Turn around."

She complied and soon felt his deft fingers tightening her laces, working gently around her neckline to urge them back into proper order. His fingers were soft and warm and light and feathery. "There," he said at last. "Let me see." He held her shoulders and turned her back around toward him and inspected the state of her bodice. "Not quite perfect," he said regretfully, "but the best a simple man can do, I think."

Emma was beginning to feel warm under his inspecting gaze, a feeling that only intensified when he reached out and tugged gently upward on the top of her bodice to try to get it to slip back into place. She licked her lips. Surely—was he trying to seduce her, as he had promised? Already? Emma could not recall another time in their entire acquaintance when Knightley had ever touched her dress; but then, she had certainly never ripped it half-open in front of him, either.

The moment was over as quickly as it began, so quickly that she thought she might have imagined the intensity entirely in her own head. She took Knightley's offered arm and the two walked quietly back to Donwell.


	14. Emma Married

_A/N: This is a shortie, a part A of which I have not had energy/time to write part B. :) I want to say again how very much I appreciate the reviews. I'm amazed, actually, at how great an effect they have on me. You really do convince me to find the time to work on this, or discourage me, by turns! It's rather horrible how easily influenced I am. All that to say, feeding the author DOES have the desired effect, lol, and I am very thankful for all your kind words and suggestions and observations. I am new here and very unsure of the etiquette and I have PMing turned off, but I wish I could write back to you all and tell you how much I appreciate your reviews. Oh, one other thing; I think this story may have about four chapters left, and then the long-past tragedy-story of Mr. Knightley and Miss Bates is really itching at me to tell it. Does anyone think that sounds interesting, or just squicky? :)_

On the day before their wedding, Knightley came by Highbury to invite Emma on one last final walk.

"I wanted to talk to you—to reassure you—about what would happen tomorrow," he said once they were away from the house. "John and Isabella are going to stay with your father for a time, so you can come home with me to Donwell. I am sure they think they are doing us a favor, but," he paused, "I was afraid you might find it awkward."

"You have promised me you would not ravish me, G-George," she said, stumbling over his name. "I imagine that is true at Donwell just as it would be at Highbury."

He nodded. "All the same; the mistress bedroom is connected to my own by a dressing room—and the rooms share a water closet and bath. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, but it would look very odd indeed to my staff to put you up in a guest room."

Emma nodded mutely, and eventually observed, "I've never seen any of the bedrooms at Donwell."

Knightley chucked. "I don't believe any Highbury maiden ever has! It would hardly be appropriate, in a bachelor household."

"Do you mean you've never..." Emma hesitated. "I thought—you said you were... experienced," she finished vaguely.

Knightley stopped walking and stared at her. "Do you mean to tell me that you're under the impression that I bring women home to Donwell to..."

Emma frowned. "You said you've had mistresses."

"Not in an age! I told you, I learned my error from the experience with Miss Bates." He huffed. "And besides, I would have never bought them to Donwell!"

"So you just visit women in the village, then?" Emma snapped.

"No!" Knightley tried to swallow his sense of outrage, and reached out and grabbed his young friend's hands in his own. "Emma, I told you I have high notions of marriage." He licked his lips. "It has been years—you were young—since the last time I was _with_ anyone at all, and I promise you now just as surely as I will publicly promise you tomorrow, that no matter what happens between us, Emma, for as long as we both shall live, there will be _no other_."

"Oh, Mr.— I mean, George, that is not fair!" His companion exclaimed in apparent earnest.

"Not fair?" He asked, nonplussed.

"I do not wish to doom you to celibacy, sir," she exclaimed.

Knightley looked at her a moment, considering, and then, without releasing his grip on her hands, he leaned in and whispered warmly against her ear, "I have great hopes of not remaining celibate, my dear." Then he stepped back.

Emma dropped his hands immediately and looked at him in open dismay. "Mr. Knightley!"

"George," he reminded her with a smirk.

"Oh, goodness; George, then. You are not being kind."

"Did I hurt you, Emma?" Knightley asked in a bland tone, but his gaze was serious.

"N-no," she stuttered, "but you did make me—uncomfortable."

"Hmm," he said noncommittally, looking at her carefully. "I am not sure whether to be sorry for that or not, Emma."

"Surely it is never a kindly thing to make one's companions discomfited," Emma looked at him sternly.

Knightley's lips quirked. "The sight of you in that beautifully toned peach dress discomfits _me_."

Emma felt a shiver run down her back. "I am thoroughly confused, M-George."

"I could clarify the situation," he drawled.

He leaned in toward her again, although not as close, and gently held her shoulders when she would have stepped farther back away from him. "But I'll wait until tomorrow at least," he whispered.

Emma felt the blush spreading all over her face. Who _was _this impostor, and what had he done with her prim and proper Mr. Knightley? She opened her mouth to protest, but he turned on his heel and began walking briskly back to the house. "I will see you tomorrow, my dear," he called out behind him.

* * *

But Knightley was not at all as sure of himself as he appeared to Emma. He _had_ been quite a disreputable young man in his youth, and was sure that if he dusted off enough of his old skills, that he could persuade Emma to lay aside her fears. He had seen her blush and felt her shiver, and knew she wasn't nearly as impervious to him as she thought. And he was increasingly sure that he wasn't remotely impervious to _her_. What he wasn't sure of, however, was what variation of Emma would be left if he manipulated her affections rather than waiting patiently for her trust to return on its own accord.

When the time came to _kiss__ the bride_, therefore, the brief touch of his lips that Emma felt on hers was so short and impersonal that she hardly felt it, and she looked at him with the faintest notion of confusion before taking his offered arm to walk back down the aisle at out of the church. She felt the eyes of the entire village on her as he handed her up into his waiting carriage; the equally brief touch of his hands around her waist and on her hand felt oddly warm to her and finally her nervousness got the better of her.

"It wasn't written in the marriage settlement, was it?" She said suddenly.

Knightley looked at her in surprise. "What wasn't?"

"That you wouldn't force me—if I wasn't willing."

"No, of course not. That's not the sort of thing one would want committed to public record, after all." He regarded her carefully. "But you know, you can rely on me," he assured her.

"But there would be nothing at all that I could do, correct?" Emma persisted, and Knightley's heart constricted as he shook his head. "And no one would even feel pity for me, because I am failing to perform the singular foremost duty of a wife," she continued.

"Emma—"

"No, _George_," she protested. "It is true, and I am well and truly trapped now," she said despondently. And then suddenly they were at the house, and Emma tore out of the carriage and raced inside. She took dinner in her room, and Knightley left her to herself. As he was going to bed himself, he listened carefully through the dressing room door for some sound to indicate she was still awake. When he heard the fluttering sound of turning book pages—had Emma raided his library?—he knocked softly on the door, but didn't touch the knob. "Good night, Emma," he murmured then turned to walk back to his room.

The door opened, however, and Emma stood there dressed in the most hideously modest dressing gown he could imagine, one that hid every last imaginable trace of her figure even better than her day dresses did. He supposed it had been a careful choice on her part. "Come to claim your rights after all?" She asked bitterly.

"You know I haven't," Knightley answered reproachfully.

Emma bit her lip. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Goodnight, Emma."

"George?" She asked hesitantly.

"Emma."

"Goodnight, George."

"Goodnight."


	15. Emma Curious

A/N: I wrote this tiny snippet almost immediately after the last chapter, and was waiting to post it until I could write more. This story is not abandoned, exactly; I have been horribly sick for months, and am still sick. I am not working on anything else, and I have not forgotten it; I am just too sick to write. I am still intending on finishing it, when, hopefully, I am more recovered. I loathe abandoned stories.

* * *

The next day, the Knightleys continued as companionably as they ever had, and spoke no more of the events of the night before. When it came time for bed, Emma again retired to her room, but though she waited until the late hours, there was no knock from Knightley's side of the dressing room door. Finally, when the hour was late indeed, she was unable to restrain her curiosity any further, and very quietly opened the door.

She stared across the expanse of the dressing room to Knightley's bedroom door on the other side. It was open, and she could hear the faint sound of heavy breathing.

Emma smiled, then tiptoed to the edge of his doorway and peeked through. She could just make out his form hidden half under the covers and heavily distorted by the darkness in the room.

Then the floor creaked, and she froze.

Knightley leapt out of bed with a great bound and confusion. "Who is it?" He demanded. Then, more softly, "Emma? Is that you?"

She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. You didn't knock, and— well, I was worried about you. It was silly."

"I'm sorry to have worried you," he answered, fumbling about on the nightstand until he succeeded in lighting the oil lamp.

As the dim light raked across the room, Emma stepped back toward her own bedroom, wishing she'd thought to put on a wrapper before peeking through the dressing room door.

"Wait," Knightley said quickly.

Emma swallowed.

"Is—is your room satisfactory?" he stuttered. "I hadn't asked." Looking up at her, he noticed for the first time that her choice of nightgown tonight was very different from her fearful choice last night. She'd obviously felt more comfortable that her nocturnal solitude would go uninterrupted, because this nightgown was—alluring. Innocent, not seductive, but neither was it designed to be as thoroughly _chaste_ as possible.

"It's fine," she said.

"What are you doing here?" He said, distractedly.

"You asked me to wait," Emma replied.

"Oh, yes."

Emma was feeling flushed. "You're looking at me peculiarly," she said petulantly.

"I'm sorry," he replied, not sounding very sorry at all.

"I'll go now," she said quickly, not at all sure what to make of the heated glint she saw in his eyes.

Knightley just swallowed loudly and nodded, and Emma backed her way out of the room and pushed the door shut with a quick _click_.


End file.
